


The Properties of Lightning

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, semi-fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2064156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a heatwave in London, but it's not affecting Sherlock. Oh no. Any more than he's being affected by his new flatmates- John, Mary, Molly Hooper and Molly Hooper's unconscionably teensy pyjamas. (Seriously? Are they even legal?) </p><p>But as the heatwave rolls on and Molly and Sherlock get closer, might the Great Detective finally lose his cool? Or might Molly do it for him? </p><p>One way or another, it'll be hot times in Baker Street...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Properties Of Lightning

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This just wouldn't leave me alone- Nothing to do with  _No Capes!_ or  _Little Goldfish_ I'm afraid. Just a little stand-alone ficlet...

* * *

~  **THE PROPERTIES OF LIGHTNING ~**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes knows that he is a creature of winter.

It's not that he doesn't  _like_ sunshine, per se. He has nothing against its brightness. Nor its inevitability. Nor its frankly lobotomising effect on a British public which sees far too little of it and thus quite loses the run of itself whenever a sunny day appears. After all, even he must allow that occasionally leaving the flat is a good idea, however little he may like to admit it; If he wants good cases and exciting adventures and to go chasing after criminals then it is necessary for him to venture forth onto the streets, and sometimes those streets are both sunny and summery-

_So no, Sherlock doesn't have a problem with summer or sunshine, per se._

No, he just has a problem with its effects, now that he's stuck in Baker Street with one Molly Hooper, St. Bart's pathologist, apparent damsel in distress and tiny, miniscule, actually-are-you-sure-those-are-legal? pyjama-wearing enthusiast.

And it's really starting to get to him. The tiny-pyjamas-wearing part.

_He's trying to pretend it isn't, but he knows deep down that it is._

Because Molly (along with John, Mary and The Sprog, though they've relocated to the flat upstairs) is spending increasing amounts of time in his presence now that Mycroft's decided to place all his highest profile eggs in one basket in the hope of flushing Moriarty out. And Sherlock is finding this fact increasingly… irksome.  _Disagreeable_.

In fact, there are times when her presence makes him downright jittery, so wound up and uncomfortable, that he feels like crawling out of his skin might not be a bad idea.

It's her proximity, you see. The way she slouches and pads around the flat in her little pyjamas, or at best a pair of trackies and a tee, really should be cause for complaint.  _Would_ be cause for complaint, if he had any say in her coming to stay here and didn't feel slightly guilty for his part in her having to do it. Unfortunately however, he  _does_ feel guilt for her having to leave her flat to come and stay here, and this contrition raises its head at the most inopportune times, usually when he's about to order her to put some bloody clothes on and stop distracting him-

So he holds his tongue. He  _does_  sometimes do that.

John seems to know and John seems to think it's hilarious.

So does Mary.

This is extra annoying because now that he's married a Bond girl, John doesn't even respond to threats, and not even Sherlock is foolish enough to try making any at the new Mrs. Watson.

_He doesn't think he'll survive being shot twice._

So he's stuck. It would be easier to become cross, Sherlock often thinks, if Molly were dressing the way she does in order to pique his interest. But she isn't- One look at her bewildered response to his recent narkiness is enough to make that self-evident. Molly's just not the sort to flaunt her body without reason; as lovely as she is, she simply doesn't seem comfortable wearing figure-hugging clothes, and Sherlock has always respected that about her. It's nice to be around someone- rather like John, in fact- who really doesn't care how she looks-

He said this to Molly once, with the full intention of praising her.

By the time the yelling had died down, John had punched him, Mary had thrown a pillow at him and Molly had excused herself to run into the bathroom, which even Sherlock knew was a Bit Not Good. He still has no idea why everyone was angry at him though.

_It's a mystery, and not even a fun one._

But then these days Molly is often a mystery, and for him to describe the most inanely banal and predictable woman of his acquaintance thus is really saying something.

He frowns as he thinks it, glaring into the darkness and willing to heat to lift. Even after the sun goes down it's stifling, wrapping itself around him until he thinks he might smother. Making his flesh creep, his bones languid, and bringing the salt tang of sweat from seemingly every pore.  _It is disgusting_. To his right pale yellow lamplight pours in through his window, washing the room in neon and making sleep even more impossible, and as he realises that Sherlock huffs out another, angrier breath, grabbing his pillow and pressing it in front of his face though he knows that it's completely counter-productive-

He hears it then, the slight, hissing pitter-patter of rain, the wind beginning to rise though the temperature doesn't drop any.

Sherlock swears to himself.

 _Wonderful,_ he thinks,  _now I really will never sleep. The one time when I bloody want to, and the weather's out to get me. Stupid bloody climate change-_

He lies on his back, slowly, colourfully cursing his way through every tap and whisper and press of rain, the light from the streetlamps growing ever more washed out and wavering-

He's still doing that when the first crack of lightning comes, and when Molly opens his door and whispers to him to ask if he's still awake.

* * *

Molly knows she's being ridiculous.

Just as she knows that she's never going to hear the end of this.

But the simple fact is that she doesn't like electrical-storms, finds being stuck in them rather terrifying actually-  _a boring childhood trauma involving being locked in a closet during one by an older cousin is to blame-_

And frankly if she's going to be stuck in a strange place while one scares her out of her wits then she is not willing to suffer alone. The last time she had to sit through one, Tom was still living with her. Needless to say, Tom isn't living with her anymore- But someone else who fit's the description tall, dark and dorky  _is._

And that being the case, she fully intends to take advantage.

So she taps shyly on Sherlock's door, pushes it open. A flash of lightning cracks as she does it, harsh and platinum-white and jagged, outlining everything in garish, x-ray bright light. For a moment Sherlock looks up at her as the thunder rolls, hair standing on end, startled, and she's almost tempted to mutter, "It's alive!" he looks so like a certain post-modern Prometheus.

She thinks he might even appreciate the joke.

The scowl he immediately shoots her makes the words die in her throat however, the desire to talk to him going with it. For a moment Molly is silent, more flummoxed around him than she has been in years, and then-

"Well?" he snaps. "What is it, Molly?"

She opens her mouth to answer him, entirely sure she can- she'll just tell him she wondered whether he wanted a drink, there's no need to share how nervous she is-

_She really doesn't think it would be wise to try something silly like being vulnerable around Sherlock at a time like this._

Unfortunately however she doesn't answer quickly enough and Sherlock rolls his eyes. Gives a martyred sigh. He shifts in his bed, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest and in that moment Molly realises that-  _Oh my_ \- He's not wearing a pyjama top. Or, by the looks of things, a pyjama bottoms either- A single, muscular calf and foot poke out from under his sheets, its white flesh dusted with black hair and looking far more alluring than a man's leg has the right to look…

Silently, Molly curses a misspent youth watching Jane Austen adaptations on the BBC and the subsequent leg fetish such diversions may have given her.

 _Mr. Darcy's trousers have a lot to answer for_ , she thinks darkly.

An image of Sherlock wearing said trousers pops into her head and it is only with great difficulty that she forces the unruly image away.

_Ahem._

"Molly, if you're going to say something then say something," Sherlock snaps peevishly then. He's glaring at the rain-spattered window as if it's taken his last penguin bar and now he wants it back.

 _He always takes the universe not going his way so personally_ , she thinks.

But the tone is enough to get her moving. She blinks and looks back at him. Nods. "I was wondering whether you wanted a drink of something?" she says quietly. "I-I can't sleep, and I thought I heard- um, heard you moving about in here." She gives him a weak attempt at a sympathetic smile. "So if you would like a glass of-"

Whatever cover story she would have come up with is ruined however, because another flash of lightning cracks and, since she wasn't expecting it, Molly nearly jumps out of her skin. She lets out a little shriek that makes her sound about three years old, her arms coming up to wrap around her middle in fright, and Sherlock smirks at the sight, snickers, amusement clear in his reaction.  _That git,_ Molly thinks. She acts on impulse, picking up the nearest object and smacks him over the head with it. Hard. And when he doesn't apologise-  _Did she really expect him to?-_ she hits him again. And again. And again.  _It's really rather enjoyable… Feels almost… therapeutic…_

This results in his glaring at heras if  _she's_  taken his last penguin bar.

It's made even more ridiculous by how good he looks with hair that appears to have been electrocuted and a facial expression that appears to have been stolen off a toddler.

Unfortunately-  _or fortunately, depending on how you look at it_ \- Molly's chosen weapon happens to be the pillow Sherlock has kicked down to the end of his bed, and in picking it up and hitting him with it, she disturbs said leg and the sheets covering it. And by disturbs, she means moves. Uncovers. Unveils.  _She never got a look at anything like this of Mr. Darcy's,_ Molly thinks, caught somewhere between delight and mortification as she gets an eye-ful-  _I believe the phrase I'm looking for is Hello Sailor-_

If he weren't being beaten about the head by a pillow, Sherlock would doubtless notice that he's giving his pathologist a flash of a great deal more than a comely ankle, but hey, he's still trying to defend himself and he doesn't notice that he's flashing her his hip, belly, and- yup, he's shifted to avoid impact- a sliver of his bare arse. Molly sees absolutely no point in telling him this, particularly not since he's started to fight back and is attempting to wrestle the pillow out of her hand. She may seem like a peaceful creature but she knows better than to give him any advantage: He's nearly a foot taller than her as it is, after all.

So, knowing that her chances of keeping her weapon are zero if she doesn't find a decent defensive strategy she hits him particularly hard, managing to knock him back onto the bed. And then, like the true heir to Boudicca she is, she takes off out of his room, pillow still in hand, her own breathless laughter trailing after her-

She should have known, however, that the great detective wouldn't give up that easily.

_Moriarty would be running the country by now if Sherlock were the kind to_ _**just give up** _ _._

For with a warrior yell of his own, Sherlock takes off through the apartment in hot pursuit, apparently caring not one jot that he's as naked as the day he was born. Apparently not caring that John and Mary are asleep upstairs either. (John lived with him, he's slept through worse). He's wearing this slightly demented grin on his face now and Molly can't help but suspect that her goose might be cooked-

She just really hopes that it won't be as mortifying as she suspects it will be.

Not the sort to give up though, Molly makes it through the kitchen, stopping only to throw sofa-cushions and bits of clothing and- since it came to hand- a loaf of bread at him as she thunders towards her own room. (She belatedly registers as she does this that she's laughing. She's not sure why; She finds the ongoing thunder and lightning as scary as she ever has). She skids to a halt inside her bedroom door, slamming it shut behind her. Unfortunately for her, however, Sherlock's just a little too heavy to keep out- That's what happens when a man is ninety percent leg, she thinks scornfully- and he manages to pop the door easily. He looks- He looks slightly demented wearing that manic grin.

For some reason she doesn't want to examine, Molly's suddenly feeling rather flustered and though she knows he's the one wearing not a stitch, she's the one who feels exposed.

Still smiling though Sherlock stalks- there really is not other word for it- into her room, his eyes trained on her. With a look of consternation, Molly realises that he has grabbed the fish-fingers she bought for dinner yesterday out of the freezer and he's holding them in front of him now like some sort of weapon. He appears to have a bag of ice in his other hand. He should look ridiculous like that, bollock-naked and waving about frozen perishables but he doesn't. He looks edible. Divine.

 _Yummy,_ her mind murmurs,  _I believe that's the technical term_ -

Molly's doesn't have time to debate with herself though: instead she darts to one side of her bed as he darts to the other side. The git throws the bloody fish-fingers at her, but they miss.

He's between her and the door so she's not going anywhere, and he hasn't taken that electric-blue gaze off her since he entered.

Unwilling to give up the fight Molly feints towards the door and he moves to block her; At the last moment though she jumps onto her bed instead, dislodging the bed-clothes and sliding through them. Trying to surge past him and onto the floor, from where she can launch herself at the door. (Being small has its perks).

She makes it halfway through the manoeuvre but with a loud, delighted, "A-ha!" Sherlock realised her plan and throws himself onto the bed, stopping her mid-skid. Their bodies collide and he manages to roll them so that his weight doesn't land on her though he does, laughing that rough, deep bark of his as Molly tries to get loose.

They come to a halt with her underneath, fully dressed, and him on top, wearing nothing. Molly's hand is resting right next to the bag of ice, but though she knows she should press her advantage she does not. Maybe it's the fact that him not wearing any clothes makes him seem vulnerable, right at the minute. Or maybe it's the fact that she doesn't want to douse this thing between them in ice, not with Sherlock looking at her like that.

Whatever the reason though, as she blinks up at him she sees something… confused move through his expression. He cocks his head to the side as he stares down at her, almost as if he's trying to work out what he's looking at. Almost as if she's a puzzle, an equation, that he just can't solve.

He opens his mind mouth- to ask a question?- and then snaps it shut again. This move is repeated twice as Moll stares up at him, and despite herself she feels that old longing twist through her, attraction sliding through her flesh. Making it tingle.

For a moment, she feels like she has champagne in her veins instead of blood.  _It's a good feeling._

Without her willing them to her nipples peak through her pyjama t-shirt, the beginnings of arousal working their way through her frame. Her body loosens beneath him, and suddenly she is very aware of everywhere his body touches hers: His hand at the back of her head, the thumb of his free hand brushing against her leg. Her knee. She can feel his breath against her skin. He's dropped the ice-bag, forgotten, beside her, and she can feel cold coming off them against her skin though it feels ever so hot there where it's pressed against him. The silence stretches out, one beat, two beats, loud and rushing and completely, utterly unexpected-

And then, just as suddenly, another crack of lightning flashes, turning everything in her room x-ray bright and livid.

Without her meaning to Molly lets out a little gasp, the spell broken as her body shudders, the sound of her sharp intake of breath covered by the boom of rolling thunder as Sherlock watched her carefully.

She feels a little like a specimen in the lab, as he does that.

"It is curious," he says softly then, and his voice sounds odd, a little ragged. Breathing seems to be an issue for him. "You appear to be genuinely afraid of lightning. Why is that?"

He's still staring down at her, genuine interest in his gaze as Molly trembles against him.

His voice has dropped, become deeper, and she has no idea why.

"I-" She clears her throat and tries again. Turns out, he's not the only one who's breathless. "I, um, I don't like lightning," she says. "It frightens me. Always has-"

"But there is more to it than that." Sherlock shakes his head. "What is it?"

She doesn't like telling people, is used to being told it's stupid. But she knows better than to think making him badger her is a good idea. "When I was a kid, one of my cousins used to lock me into a broom cupboard under the stairs during lightning storms," she says quietly.

"He knew you were frightened of them?"

Molly nods. "He thought it was funny."

Sherlock's look is thoughtful. "And he was older than you. Quite a bit older."

Again Molly nods. She doesn't bother asking him how he knows that. "I was six and he was fourteen. He was supposed to be babysitting me." She shakes her head at the memory. Even now it gives her the creeps. "When dad found out he stopped sending me to that aunt's but the damage was done: I turn into a massive big girl's blouse every time I have to sit through one-"

Sherlock blinks at the words- apparently he's unfamiliar with the concept of large feminine over-garments as an insult- but instead of agreeing with her assessment he loosens his grip on her. Moves to sit back on his haunches, his gaze still on her though she immediately misses the feeling of her body pressed against his. The silence stretches out further, that odd, quizzical expression never leaving him-

And then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, Sherlock reaches into his purloined bag of ice and pulls out a single ice-cube.

He holds out his hand to her and without thinking, she places her fingers in his.

He turns her hand over, her palm facing upwards. Takes the ice-cube and slides it over her thumb, the heel of her hand, sliding it down to press against her wrist. Her pulse-point. It feels like every nerve-ending in her body is set upon connecting with that little sliver of ice.

She feels cold and hot and shivery, and she's not even sure what stimulus is causing which response, she just knows she likes it  _so much._

"Tell me about your favourite autopsy," Sherlock says after a moment, the ice-cube still pressed against her pulse. Molly licks her lips at the sound of his voice. Another crack of thunder sounds and she jumps, but he turns her attention back to him.

"Tell me about the one you enjoyed most," he says, "and the one you enjoyed least: I find myself rather interested." He gestures to his nakedness. "It's either that or I go looking for clothes, and it's too bloody hot for  _that_. So tell away."

Molly shakes her head, surprised. Not sure he could be doing what she thinks he's doing. Not sure if she's doing what she thinks she's doing.

But she takes a deep breath and begins to speak, and with him near she's not as frightened of the storm as she might have been.

* * *

Sherlock's not sure what this feeling is, as he looks at Molly, but he thinks it might be… sentiment.

_Oh dear._

And yet, he doesn't mind it necessarily: She talks through the night, telling him about this and that. Recounting particularity interesting cases she remembers, or particularly funny ones. (She has an odd sense of humour, but it's something Sherlock actually likes).

Occasionally her stories intersect with his, and he gets to retell one of his adventures to her. (She makes a delightful audience, quick and eager to hear tell of his genius). As she speaks, he feels her tension lessen, sees the fear the lightning evoked gradually drift away. The feeling of the ice-cube at her wrist seems to ground her-

Though when she takes one and places it against his skin, grounded is about the last thing Sherlock feels.

He doesn't say anything though, can't begin to imagine how to do it. What he felt when he was on top of her during their play-battle was perplexing enough, and that's without factoring in the feelings all those tiny little pyjama sets of hers cause.  _So he leaves well enough alone._ The stories come to her easily though, and the storm outside passes as she tells them. She gets more tired and her eyes begin to droop shut; Eventually Sherlock's do too. (It's the heat, you know. That and going tearing through the house without any clothes on. Because yes, he obviously  _knows_ he's naked, he just doesn't see why he should care.)

By the time the mere dregs of the rain are tapping against the windows Molly is half-asleep, his head resting against her thigh as she sits up with her back to her bed's headboard-

Sherlock sleeps eventually, and he dreams of lightning. Lightning and Molly.

Something in his brain is telling him they're very similar, but he can't grasp why- He just finds himself wishing for another electrical storm.


	2. The Properties of Vexation

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Originally this was a one shot, but I've decided to continue. Might do more, haven't decided. And let me know what you think. 

* * *

**~ THE PROPERTIES OF VEXATION ~**

* * *

  _Six Weeks' Later_

He's taken the wrong bloody bottle of water again.

Sherlock Holmes huffs in annoyance and flops onto his back in the bed. Stares up at the ceiling and squirms as he tries to get comfortable.

 _He does not succeed- But then given the current heat he is not surprised_.

Outside the traffic whispers, telling him how late it is; the roving packs of city-boy revellers which disturbed his rest earlier have dissipated, doubtless having found their desired pub or club or orgy or… well, whatever it is that city-boy revellers go looking for in packs. Sherlock shakes his head at the thought, absent-mindedly bringing the water bottle up to his lips again to drink, only to be once again reminded that it's the wrong one-

He can tell by the trace of orange and mint that it's one of Molly's. One of the ones she made especially for herself. One of the ones she's going to notice he keeps taking.

Sherlock doesn't know why he keeps doing it: He doesn't even  _like_ the mix of orange and peppermint she favours. And yet he keeps taking them whenever he pads into the kitchen, looking for a drink to cool him down.

Even John has noticed, though he hasn't said anything. He and Mary just keep grinning like imbeciles.

 _Really,_ Sherlock thinks,  _it's all very peculiar._

 _And, even he must admit,_ _ **rude**_.

But he can't seem to help it. When Molly came home six weeks ago (at the start of the current heat wave) with a bag full of plastic bottles and asked everyone how they liked their water, Sherlock had said with lemon. So she had filled six of her bottles with tap water and lemon, and then set them in a section of the fridge she, John and Mary had designated "for food."

(It didn't really mean for food, Sherlock had groused at the time, it just meant, "somewhere Sherlock can't put body-parts, which is ridiculous because this is his flat.")

John and Mary, currently residing in the upstairs flat in Baker Street at Mycroft's request, had said that they only wanted a little peppermint in their bottled water. Molly had taken out a few sprigs of said herb and popped them in, telling the happy couple that they would have to go through their supplies more quickly, since the peppermint would start to rot within a few hours.

They'd agreed and then headed upstairs for another bash at connubial bliss-  _really, Sherlock heard more about John Watson's sex-life now he's living in another flat than he did when they were room-mates_ \- and over the next few, heat-filled days the Watsons had gone through their cooled water supply surprisingly quickly.

_One can only imagine what they'd been doing to necessitate this._

Not of course that  _that_  was of any import: Sherlock may have loved them both like family, but even he allowed that their recreational activities weren't his business.

_And he had no need to think about sex at all, now did he?_

Everyone else taken care of, Molly had filled up her bottles of water with peppermint and orange wedges, and left them in the fridge. She'd made a point of identifying them to Sherlock, since she said she was sick of paying a fortune for bottled water in the Bart's canteen and asked him to leave them alone. (Well, to say she asked… More like she ordered. She'd looked stern and cross and everything. It had been really rather attractive.)

Sherlock had taken one of her waters "by accident," that very night.

He hadn't noticed what he'd done that night until he'd guzzled more than half the water bottle, the heat in the flat so stifling that he felt cocooned in his own sweat. When he'd realised what he'd done, he'd stared at the bottle, nonplussed, before deciding it wasn't terribly important.  _Molly could nick one of his if she felt like evening up the score any._ The heat of the evening was becoming unbearable and Sherlock needed to get out of the flat before his head exploded, so he'd gone over to the fridge and taken another bottle of water before heading out to a rather intriguing-sounding garrotting Lestrade had just texted for his opinion on-

He'd been in the middle of the crime scene, asking Anderson's replacement whether his Hawaiian shirt was standard Met issue, when he'd noticed that he'd taken another of Molly's bottles of water.

He honestly couldn't work out how it had happened. ( _How could a mind like his make such a consistent mistake?)_

Guilt, that seldom-felt but powerful motivator, had reared its ugly head and he'd texted John, asked whether there was anything he could bring back to the flat to help its inhabitants deal with the heat?

John (understandably suspicious about any food willingly bought by Sherlock Holmes) had replied that melon and citrus fruits would be welcome, and Sherlock had arrived home laden with them. He had even felt a small twinge of satisfaction at the way John, Mary and Molly all dived on the food, famished as if they'd been through a drought.

He'd gone to bed- no point in staying up when they heat made even thinking difficult- and the next morning he'd woken up to find a quarter of one of the water melons and a bottle of his lemon water sitting on his bedside table; both were so cool they couldn't have been there long, and Sherlock somehow knew it hadn't been John who had left them.

_Molly had been in his room. She'd left him a gift._

_The thought was rather… unsettling._

Rather than dwell on that though, Sherlock ate both and hopped out of bed, energised for the day. He'd run to the fridge to take some water as he'd bounced out the door, only to discover in the cab that yes, he'd taken Molly's water again. And once again, he hadn't meant to do so.

_That had been six weeks ago, and the pattern of water theft had inexplicably repeated itself over and over again._

Sherlock reflects on this conundrum now, staring up at his bedroom ceiling and once again feeling so stuffy and smothered that his sheets feel as stifling as a mummy's wrappings. For all the times he's chided John for seeing but not observing, he seems awfully prone to it himself when it comes to Molly's water.  _Curioser,_ he thinks,  _and curioser._

_One might almost think I had some… interest, in having something of Molly's with me._

He shakes his head at the sentimental notion;  _How absurd,_ he thinks.

But though he tells himself it's stupid, Sherlock can't shake the sense that somehow he's being a little bit less than honest with himself. After all, there's usually a reason why a person does something, isn't there? The entire science of deduction rests on the notion that random actions are not, in fact, random at all. He frowns at the thought, wondering what might be prompting him to steal Molly's property and as he does so he hears the door to Baker Street open downstairs, hears the sound of feet trampling up the stairs and towards the landing.

Sherlock growls to himself, presses a pillow over his face again.

_This is going to be torture._

Because clearly Molly Hooper is just back from her date with Tim The Dim, some new tech bloke who's taken to hanging around her in the morgue like a puppy since the first day he met her. (Sherlock finds the man unspeakably tedious). After nearly a month of pestering she had agreed to let the idiot take her out and tonight was the night, the fact that she's letting him into the flat clearly meaning that the idiot impressed her sufficiently to be invited into her bedroom-

Except that the flat's front door doesn't open. The footsteps go no further than the landing.

Sherlock sits up in bed, cocks and ear, but there's no sound of a key in the lock, just as there's no sounds which indicate a goodnight kiss is being dispensed behind the flat's front door.

 _Now that_ _**is** _ _interesting._

Instead he can hear what might be whispers, the higher voice (Molly, no doubt) muttering animatedly though Sherlock can't make out the words. The lower voice answering in a whiny tone which even the detective recognises as the sound of a man trying to get his end away.

_A Stand-Off For Coitus would appear to be taking place on Baker Street's landing at this very moment._

Sherlock frowns, stands up and pads to the front door. This discussion doesn't sound like it's going anywhere, and though he wouldn't want to hazard a guess why, that makes him uneasy; If Molly were about to invite the man in, then she'd have done it already.

That she hasn't indicates she's not interested and Tim is not, perhaps, doing the gentlemanly thing and taking the bloody hint.

For a moment he stands still in front of the door, wondering what he should do- Whether, in fact, he should do anything. Molly Hooper is, after all, a grown woman, and- her fear of lightning notwithstanding- she is more than capable of taking care of herself.

But then he hears Molly raise her voice loud enough to wake the house, biting out a clearly enunciated, "No, I'm not interested," and as she does so Sherlock hears a heavy step taken forwards, followed by two rapid, more lightly-taken steps back.  _It sounds almost like a petite woman is being forced to take a few steps back_.. There's a little yelp of surprise- clearly from Molly- and then a thump, as if she's bumped- or been banged- into the flat's front door.

Sherlock acts on instinct, opens the flat door to find Tim The Dim hissing at Molly, his face in hers as he jerks her about by her elbow-

"Problem, Molly?" Sherlock says coolly. He cocks an eyebrow, pours every ounce of scorn he can muster into his gaze as he stares down his nose at Molly's date.

_The man is clearly a miscreant._

Upon seeing another bloke in her flat, Tim lets Molly go. Steps aside. "Shit, mate," he says to Sherlock. "I didn't know she was taken. She told me she was single-"

Sherlock crosses his arms and glowers down at Tim. In almost exact unison, Molly follows suit.

"We are not involved," she bites out and Tim glances at her, his expression showing his confusion.

_It's odd, Sherlock had been under the impression that even chimps understand not all relationships are sexual._

_This one must be more imbecilic than most._

"We are friends," Sherlock adds, when Tim doesn't say anything. He narrows his eyes, gives the git his most disconcerting glower. "Molly, however, has been trying to get into this flat and away from you for approximately five minutes, and you have been preventing her: Take the message and, I believe the phrase is, "sling your hook." Or else, I'll sling it for you."

He smiles what Mary terms his sociopath smile.

"And no, that is not some sort of sexual innuendo: It means I'll kick your arse. From here to Whitechapel. Now bugger off."

Tim The Dim, whatever his feelings about being pushy with a woman half his size, must recognise that- aside from their differences in height, strength and basic manners- Sherlock will be a far more dangerous an opponent than Molly.

It is probably for this reason that he nods, stammers out a goodbye and totters back down the stairs, never to be heard from again.

As soon as the building's front door closes Molly takes a deep breath. Steps inside. She's wearing a little yellow cotton summer dress, and Sherlock can see her shaking a little, even through her orange cardigan.

"Thanks for that," she mutters tightly. "I thought- I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I didn't want to wake everyone."

For a moment Sherlock feels a flash of annoyance, that she was willing to put up with that idiot's nonsense for fear of making a scene, but then he sees her curl in on herself. Her morgue mouse pose, Mycroft calls it. She only does that when she's had a fright.

 _For a moment a night six weeks ago, a night filled with lightning, pops into his head and he forces the memory away_.

"Never be worried about waking anyone in this house, Molly," he says gruffly instead, opening the fridge and gesturing for her to sit. She does so with her head down. "I assure you, we've been woken by the CIA, MI:6, Moriarty and several government ministers. We'd all much rather be hauled out of bed for you than them, so think nothing of it, alright?"

And he reaches into the fridge, pulls out one of  _her_ bottles of water. Hunts about for a moment in the sink and then locates a reasonably clean glass. Then another.

Without a word he pours the water into them and sets one at her elbow.

She nods to him in acknowledgement- "Thanks, Sherlock,"- and then he seats himself opposite her. Takes a long sip of water as he watches her try to calm down.

Again his mind flashes back to that night of the thunderstorm, to the way she reacted to lightning.

For a moment he sees everything in his mind again, her body beneath him during their play battle, her eyes warming with sleep as he spoke to her. How small she felt, how right- How  _his_ -

"It wasn't your fault," he blurts out suddenly and then stops, mortified.

 _Where the devil did_ _**that** _ _come from?_

Molly blinks at him, surprise. "I know it's not my fault: Tim's an arsehole," she says quietly. "I just feel like… I feel like a little bit of an idiot. I shouldn't have even let him share a cab with me."

Sherlock frowns. "Why not? I shared cabs with John all the time before he came to live here again. I've even shared a cab with you. And George. And I've never assumed it meant a shag."

She shoots him a look. "You know bloody well his name is Greg Lestrade," she says severely. Sherlock reminds himself that sticking out his tongue never shows him to his best advantage, and that won't change now. "Besides, we were on a date," Molly eventually murmurs. "It sets a certain expectation-"

"That everyone will be on their best behaviour?" Sherlock asks dryly.

Despite herself, Molly shoots him a little look, taking his point.

"That everyone will be on their best behaviour," she agrees. "Which Tim wasn't. He was being a wanker. I just…" She sighs, trails off. For a moment her expression is far away.

For a moment Sherlock wishes he could change it.

"I'm not good at this stuff, you know," she says eventually. Her voice is very, very quiet. "Never was. There's a reason there hasn't been anyone since Tom: I'm really crap at this finding a partner malarkey."

Sherlock lets out a bark of laughter. She looks at him askance.

"Well, is you're looking for advice about that then you've come to the wrong place," he says. And he smiles at her, feels something inside him twist as she returns it.

_It feels almost like a little bit of lightning, inside him._

Again he pushes the thought away.

"Besides, I don't think this is to do with you being bad at dating," he says, rather than pursue  _that._  "I think this is to do with you being bad at wanting to sleep with arseholes. You're terrible at that- No interest in it whatsoever. Though I don't think the problem requires any real remedy, you know."

Molly cocks a sarcastic eyebrow at him. "You don't?"

He shakes his head with mock earnestness. "So long as you stay away from criminal masterminds or higher-functioning sociopaths, you should be fine. I'll certainly be happy with you. You're-" he clears his throat, makes himself say it. "You're a very clever, accomplished, pretty woman, Molly. Any man would be, be glad to have you as his, well, You Know-"

"Girlfriend?" she asks in amusement.

"I was going to say Bit of Stuff, actually," Sherlock dead-pans. "Much more suiting to your animal magnetism." She snorts with laughter and again he feels it, that flash of lightning within. "It will come, Molly Hooper," he says eventually, when her laughter has subsided. "Don't you doubt it. The right person will come to you- And if he doesn't I'll go looking."

And he smiles, nods, though he is the last person who should be giving romantic advice to anyone. The last person who should be giving romantic advice to  _her._

Molly stands, drains her glass. Crosses the room until she's standing beside him.

She's smiling now too, a sweet, warm little thing that lights her brown eyes and almost makes them glow.  _She really is rather lovely,_ he thinks.

"You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes," she says, reaching down to brush a kiss across his cheek. The tissue she makes contact with burns, though he tries not to show it. "Never let anyone tell you otherwise- Even if you do keep nicking my water bottles."

And with that she makes her way towards her bedroom, pulling off her little cardigan as she goes and kicking off her shoes.

Stretching her arms heavenwards, something so… delicate in her movements. So alive.

She's painted her toenails orange, he can see the colour even in the pale light from the streetlamps outside and there's something about it, something so… familiar, something so  _apt_ , that for some reason he can't fathom it causes the oddest tightening in Sherlock's chest to watch her go.

It's because he realises he doesn't want to.

He thinks about it long after he knows he should be sleeping, and in the morning he doesn't pretend it's an accident when he takes another one of her water bottles from the fridge.


	3. The Properties of Domesticity

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. 

* * *

~  **THE PROPERTIES OF DOMESTICITY ~**

* * *

_Three weeks later_

_He's sitting funny_ , Molly thinks as Sherlock tries to settle himself into his favourite chair.  _Sherlock_ _ **never**_ _sits funny_.

_No, he always looks like he's been hewn right out of a block of marble…_

_So what's up with_ _**that** _ _?_

And she peeks at the detective from underneath her eyelashes, trying to be discrete. He's perching at the very edge of his seat, his spine held painfully rigid. Those long, tapering hands of his rest on his knees, eyes closed, forehead crinkled in thought.

As Molly watches, he sits up straighter; He's wearing skinny black jeans and a grey-blue skull-and-bones t-shirt, the action causing the fabric to pull more tightly across his chest and shoulders.  _Molly doesn't want to admit it, but she's rather happy with the look._  The t-shirt's sleeves are rolled up, displaying arms covered in what look like (presumably fake) tribal tattoos; Beneath the ink his normally pale skin in sunburnt, puce and painful-looking and horrible, redness starting at the shirt collar and flowing upwards to cover the back of his neck. His scalp.

From what Molly can see, there isn't an inch of him that isn't burnt.

His arms and face are likewise red, the latter showing the unburned outline of a pair of sunglasses, something which makes him look entirely ridiculous, the battered pork-pie hat perched at the back of his head not helping matters-

"Do stop staring, Molly," he snaps irritably, now he sees her looking.

He tries to steeple his fingers beneath his chin in his usual thinking pose and winces; His hands may not be burnt, but his chin and nose certainly are.

Molly is tempted, just for one moment, to snicker.

"Forget your sun-block, did you?" she inquires innocently and Sherlock narrows his eyes at her. Pouts.

She can tell The Great Detective is less than impressed by her question.

She, on the other hand, is feeling slightly disconcerted by the sight of Hipster Sherlock- she's been subjected to Punk Sherlock, Nerd Sherlock, Gangster Sherlock and Banker Sherlock, but this is a first. She's not, therefore, feeling very charitable.

Not when she's got a bit of sunburn herself, and  _she's_ not being a pillock about it.

Besides, Molly has a bit of a thing for skinny jeans and t-shirts… Not on every bloke, you understand, but on those few who can carry the look off. Those few who can dress like that and not look like a muppet. And seeing Sherlock thus attired, even if he's covered in sunburn and obviously feeling cranky, is, well… It's kind of sexy, is what it is. Sexy, and slightly discombobulating.

Not, of course, that Molly is going to admit that to him, or anyone.

She has no intention of providing him with any amusement when he's in this sort of humour.

So instead she shrugs. Tries to look innocent. She can tell he's not buying it.

"Just making conversation," she states casually.

Sherlock scowls, then winces as the expression pulls at his sunburn.

Again, Molly tries not to giggle.

"Well, don't," he snaps. "I need to collate the data I gathered on my stakeout today. Trying to do so whilst you speak is tiresome: Desist immediately."

And he closes his eyes again. Turns his head away, presenting Molly with that familiar, patrician profile. He tries to steeple his fingers and remembers, at the last moment, not to do so, lest it disturb his sunburn; After a second he grows still and it becomes obvious he's Mind Palace-bound. Molly curls up in her own chair, wincing as the small line of sunburn across her own shoulders protests its making contact with the chair's leather, but  _she_ doesn't whine about it. Instead she allows herself the luxury of watching him work.

She'd never admit it, but she loves to do so.

Silence reigns supreme for a grand total of ninety seconds, and then Sherlock lets out an annoyed huff and opens his eyes, flinging his arms down towards the sofa and flopping backwards on it like a child about to start a tantrum. He immediately has to straighten up, presumably because the sunburn on his back is being irritated by the contact with the chair.

This time Molly does snicker.

The glare he throws her could immolate glass, but she just grins wider.

"This is ridiculous," he mutters. "I'm on a case, I refuse to allow something as idiotic as sunburn to distract me-"

Molly sighs at his words. Rolls her eyes heavenward. She recognises the beginning of a rant when she hears one.

_More than three months living with the man will do that for you._

"Sherlock," she interrupts, before he can really build up some steam. "Do you want me to help you with how sore you are?"

Immediately he stops. Blinks. Looks at her. For a split second she'd swear she sees…. Nervousness in his gaze. Shyness, almost, or embarrassment.  _What on Earth?_ But just as quickly it's gone, leaving her thinking she must have imagined it. Instead Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, throwing her a tart look.

Molly forces herself not to give in to an unfortunate temptation to lick her lips at the sight.

"Well?" he snaps. "What do you intend to do about…this?" he demands and gestures to his face. His body.

This time it's definitely embarrassment she sees flit through his expression. He must realise just what he's said and how it might be taken, but he elects to soldier on regardless.

She has the oddest feeling he's blushing, underneath the sunburn.

Without answering though Molly smiles mysteriously. Rises. She can feel Sherlock's eyes follow her over to the fridge and she finds she likes that he's intrigued by what she's doing.

She sidles into the kitchen and reaches into the freezer, pulls out her prize. It's a tube of aloe vera gel, cooled from when she brought it in with her this evening. She then reaches for her bag, parked atop the fridge, and hunts around in it until she finds an aerosol of cold mineral water. (The joy of a life of fair skin is that she knows all about taking care of sunburn).

She brings both objects back into the living room with her, walks over to Sherlock-  _Stands_  over him. He stares up at her suspiciously, eyes both objects: She holds the tube and the aerosol out to him, lets him take a look. She feels it acutely when he takes them from her hands, his fingers brushing hers though she doesn't let herself acknowledge it.

The day's hot enough without thinking about  _that._

"Aloe vera?" he scoffs after a moment but Molly nods.

"It will help your skin heal," she tells him primly. He's looking at her like she's insane but she shrugs. "Or you could just continue suffering…" She grins. "Seems you've gotten the hang of it."

"Fine!" He snaps out the word and there's not a hint of repentance or gratitude in it.

Molly shakes her head to herself.

 _Of course there isn't,_ she thinks.  _This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about._

Still, she feels a shiver of nervousness as she surveys him. She knows she doesn't want to listen to him whinge all night about how much pain he's in, but she's nervous about what she has to do next. She doesn't think he'll be able to apply this himself, not to the places which are really bothering him. Which means that she'll have to… That she'll need to…

 _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ she tells herself bracingly. Trying not to blush, she gestures to his face. His upper body. Thinking about what she's about to do will not make it easier.

"You'll need, to, um…" She trails off. "I mean,  _I'll_  need to…"

And she hunkers down in front of him, takes the aerosol and aloe vera gel back. Sherlock opens his mouth as if to say something and then promptly shuts it again. She sets the gel and the aerosol on the table beside her and then gestures for him to lean into her, taking a small amount of the aloe onto her fingertips as he does so and shuffling herself between his parted knees.

She can feel his eyes on her as she does all this, and she's not sure she can read the expression he wears. His gaze is a heavy weight on hers.

Again the silence stretches out, but this time it feels slightly... pressurized.

Sherlock frowns in consternation as she reaches up and, after a moment's hesitation, slides the first of the gel onto the back of his neck, causing him to hiss a little in discomfort. Molly winces in sympathy, looking at him to see if she should continue but he merely nods. Tilts his head forward to give her better access.

He worries his lip and it's so bloody distracting that for a split second she again forgets why she's here. But then reality returns and she nods to herself, gently strokes the gel onto his nape, beneath the neckline of his t-shirt. The skin behind his jaw and the backs of his ears is raw and red with soreness, and she massages the gel into there too. She tries not to get any of the stickiness caught in his hair and he sighs at the feeling of her hands; She smiles at this, takes the tiniest glob of the gel and strokes it along the shell of his ears, the outer flap, astonished that he even managed to get burnt there-

"Wasn't paying attention," he says suddenly and she blinks. Raises her eyebrows in question. "Wasn't paying attention," he repeats, his voice gruff. "It's how I ended up so…"

"Crispy?" She grins.

The look he shoots her is not amused. "Sore," he retorts sourly. "I'm very sore."

"I see that." The smile disappears. He really does look rather awful. "Is this helping at all?" she asks and he nods reluctantly.

"Yes, it is." He looks at her askance. Again there's that... shyness in his gaze, just for a moment. "How did you know to do it?"

Once again Molly shrugs. "I'm fair; Dad was ginger. Sunburn was a fairly common affliction, in the Hooper household." She frowns, wonders. She doesn't normally ask this sort of thing about Sherlock, but…

"Haven't you ever gotten burnt before?" she says. Now it's his turn to raise his eyebrows. "I mean… Today was the hottest day of the year. Most of London was walking around without a shirt- Didn't it occur to you to buy some sun-block?"

Sherlock's shrug is careless. Guileless.

He's trying for a nonchalance Molly doesn't quite believe.

"I didn't think I'd be out as long as I was," he says matter-of-factly. "Normally an illegal drop at somewhere like the Camden Market is quick, no nonsense. The place is swarming with tourists, not to mention locals and police. Hence the disguise."

And he gestures to his clothes, his eyes flicking up to hers as if… As if he wants to see what she thinks of them.

She feels something electric tighten in her chest at the contact.

Once again, the silence stretches out.

"The man I was looking for, though, he was holding court," he continues after a moment. "Bringing most of his clientele to him, sealing deals while I watched him from a park across the way." Sherlock gestures with one hand, as if to say  _what can you do?_ Now his gaze is directed, rather pointedly, to the floor.

He swallows rather thickly, and Molly finds herself following suit.

"I had to stay," he says. "I got all the information I needed, I just have to inform Lestrade about it. The shipment of young girls will be intercepted at port, nobody's going to be lining Mishka Olinov's pockets today-"

"Which is good. Very good. But you're hurt," Molly points out sensibly. "This will take days to heal. And you will spend days moaning about it."

And she looks at him. Crosses her arms, because really, he should have had more sense.

_And despite the fact that she knows better, she can't help but worry about him._

"Am I going to have to start nagging you to wear sun-block whenever you leave the flat?" she asks eventually and for the first time Sherlock shoots her a grin, then winces as his sunburnt face makes him regret the movement. He shakes his head however, then tilts it downwards. Molly recognises the invitation for what it is and pours some more gel onto her fingers, goes back to lathering it across his neck. (He can do his arms himself, at least that's what she tells herself.).

Once again he sighs at her ministrations, a little more loudly this time.

Again she feels this little twist of lightning, inside her belly this time.

"If you want me to wear sun-block, Molly," he says quietly, "then you shouldn't make getting burnt so pleasant…"

She stops. Looks down at him.  _Did he just_ - _?_  "Sherlock Holmes, are you flirting with me?" she asks. She tries to make the question sound good-natured. Humorous.

_She knows that he was joking._

Instantly his expression shutters closed though and he shakes his head. Stiffens. "No, of course not," he says, rather quickly. "I just… I wanted to show that I appreciate your… efforts. That's all. Let's not forget who you're dealing with, Molly."

And he shakes his head, moves himself out of Molly's grasp without warning. Straightens up and gestures for her to hand him the aloe vera gel, getting to his feet when she does.

"I'll- I'll have to do my arms," he stammers after a second. "My back-"

"You won't be able to reach-"

"I will." His tone brooks no disagreement. He shoots the door to his room a slightly desperate look. "You got the hardest places. I can do the rest. Besides, you probably want to cool down…" He nods towards the aerosol of mineral water. He looks… He looks almost panicked. "You're not all that burnt, but it's still awfully hot in here- You should just, just cool down- I'll let you get a start on that-"

And without waiting for her to agree or disagree, Sherlock strides off to his room, shutting the door rather firmly behind him.

Molly watches him go, feeling slightly bewildered.

Behind his closed door Sherlock Holmes rakes one hand through his hair, asking himself what the hell he thinks he's playing at?

He leans back against his door, no answer coming to him, and he doesn't even notice his discomfort as his burnt back presses against the wood.

* * *

It's late by the time he ventures out again, his disguise from today shucked and his sunburn covered up by his old, ratty pyjama bottoms and his blue housecoat.

He steals out of his room as quietly as if he were stealing into Buckingham Palace.

He'd rather hoped that Molly would go to bed but she hasn't; he can hear the telly set to a low drone, the theme from some tedious show playing in the background as he tiptoes out to the kitchen to fetch some water. He's just going to get a drink and pop Molly's aloe vera gel back in the fridge and then he's going to go to sleep, he tells himself. He's not going to go near her.

_He is not, he is sad to acknowledge, entirely sure whether that's a lie, however._

As he pads through the living room though he spies Ms. Hooper, sleeping nearly upright on the sofa, her petite little body curled in on itself. She's removed her cardigan and is just wearing a pair of shorts and a little strappy top, her legs tucked messily in under her and her hair hanging loose over one shoulder. She looks awfully, awfully peaceful like that, and despite himself Sherlock stops. Stares.

He knows he should leave her, knows that no good can come from getting close to her.

Why, earlier he'd nearly- He'd nearly-

_He's not going to let himself think what he'd nearly done._

But though he knows it's a bad idea, he can't help padding over to her, making sure she's alright. As he watches she frowns in her sleep, moving, and he finds himself thinking disapprovingly that she'll get a crick in her neck if she sleeps like that. He can already see a thin sliver of sunburn across the back of her shoulders, though it's not nearly so nasty-looking as his. H _aving the couch pressed against **that**  won't exactly help her healing process either._ With that in mind he reaches down and, making absolutely sure she's asleep, he scoops her up and sets about carrying her to bed.

He does not allow himself to think about how this will look tomorrow.

With a bit of luck, she'll wake up and assume she stumbled in on her own.

He manages to manoeuvre her into her room, manages to place her in the bed without incident. He's just turning to leave when her eyes flutter open-

"Sherlock…?" She murmurs. Her voice is so sleepy. "Sherlock, what are you doing in my room?"

He states the first thing that comes into his head. "Oh," he says. "Bugger."

Unfortunately for he and Molly however, one's first thought isn't always one's most helpful thought, something Sherlock is painfully aware of right now.


	4. The Properties of Combustion

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. My thanks to spuffygirl for her review, and also to all those who've left kudos. 

* * *

~  **THE PROPERTIES OF COMBUSTION ~**

* * *

  _0.5 Seconds Later_

"Oh," Sherlock says. "Oh, bugger."

Molly frowns and looks up at him, leaning back on her elbows. She knows she's half asleep, but that wasn't a particularly difficult question she just asked him, and, "oh bugger," wasn't a particularly acceptable response to it, so she asks her question again.

_It's the only way she'll be certain she's not dreaming._

"Sherlock," she asks, her eyes already heavy and her voice thick from sleep, "what are you doing in my room?" And she stares at him, awaiting a response.

She's really too tired to do anything else.

He stares back at her, eyes as wide and panicked as if she'd just demanded he tell her the meaning of life. Or the entry codes for NORAD. Or the sex of Kate and William's next baby.

The detective opens his mouth, then closes it again, then opens it again, before settling on crossing his arms defensively over his chest and narrowing his eyes. Pouting.

He's elected to feel peeved at her inquiry, apparently. She's not all that surprised.

"You fell asleep on the couch," he snaps, his tone as belligerent as if she'd just tried to sell him and the Watsons out to Moriarty. "I picked you up and put you in bed, and frankly I'm not sure why I'm facing this sort of interrogation."

Molly rolls her eyes at that.  _Of course this couldn't be a simple conversation, look at who she was having it with._  "This is not an interrogation, Sherlock," she interrupts tiredly, her head falling backwards on her pillow. "If it was, you'd know it-"

And she yawns, curls in on herself and lies back down on her side, her arms tucked around her. That way her sunburnt back won't flare painfully in protest, and she might have a chance to fall back asleep.

Sherlock, however, seems unwilling to take the hint. "How?" he asks. "How would I know if you were interrogating me, Molly?"

The question is asked hesitantly, in a curious tone which Molly doesn't expect. If it were anyone else she would think they sounded genuine, but it's Sherlock so that can't be it. Not that it really matters; She's lying down again now, and she's tired, so she's really not interested in bothering with why he's being such a pain in the arse, or what game he's playing-

On the other hand, he probably won't go away until she's given him what he wants, so perhaps she should just do things the easy way and answer.

"You'd know," she yawns, "because I'd have you chained to a chair somewhere, and you can bet it'd be a lot less comfy than this. No food, no water, just you and me until you told gave it up and told me what I wanted to know-"

Sherlock stiffens at her words, apparently disturbed by them. Molly can't help herself, she shoots him a wicked little grin.

She's enjoying herself now.

"I'd be relentless," she says. "Remorseless. I'd have you begging for mercy, you  _and_  your big, swishy coat."

Sherlock swallows. He's looking at her rather oddly. It's impossible to tell under the sunburn, but once again Molly could swear that he's- That he's blushing.

_What on Earth?_

She likes the notion though, so she smiles more widely, warming to her theme. It's so rare that she gets to discombobulate the great Sherlock Holmes that she's willing to take her time. She rolls onto her back, stretching, about to really start teasing him. His eyes widen at the sight, gaze flickering down and over her body, and the look he shoots her is almost… appreciative, before it skitters away.

Whatever words of teasing she had been planning die on her tongue as she realises this.

Silence stretches out, the atmosphere thick with…something. Something neither she nor Sherlock seem to want to name.

The air itself seems charged with electricity now and at this thought she stiffens; She must shift herself somehow when she does it, because her sunburn flares in protest and she winces.  _It really is rather sore._ Sherlock frowns and before she can say anything he's across the room, standing at the bed and looking down at her. Hunkering down until he's eye-level with her, his hands reaching out in what appears to be an instinctive desire to touch. Perhaps, even, to help.

At the last moment he checks himself however, his hands stalling and dropping down to his sides. He tries to make the action look natural and instead merely makes it more awkward, his eyes casting about as if he's looking for something to comment on rather than owning up to what he's just done.  _This is the most embarrassed she's ever seen him_.

He opens his mouth and then closes it; she does the same. For a moment neither of them speak and then he nervously clears his throat.

"Would you like me to bring in your aloe vera gel?" he asks.

His voice is stiltedly polite as he says this. It sounds… somewhat hesitant.

Molly nods, not sure what else to do, seeing only a way out of an awkward moment. She's not entirely sure what's going on, but she doesn't think she likes it. "That would be helpful, please," she says and he nods. Rises. Walks quickly and assuredly out the door.

He peeks back at her over his shoulder as he closes it.

She can't help the way it makes her feel pinned to her spot on the bed.

Molly breathes a tiny sigh of relief to see the back of him and the weird what-the-Hell-is-this? atmosphere he causes. She frowns to herself, wondering where all this is coming from, and congratulating herself for getting through this with so little embarrassment to herself or him. The flaw in her plan presents itself almost immediately however: She has  _not_ seen the back of him, nor has this evening's capacity for embarrassment been exhausted. He returns with the aloe vera gel, and as soon as he does the tension resurfaces too. Molly doesn't know quite what to make of it: He loiters at her bedroom door, staring at her, his eyes nervous and jittery as he holds the tube of gel out.

"You're, em, you're going to need help with that," he says quietly.

She frowns at him and he clarifies. "You're not going to be able to reach," he says. "The sunburn. On your back. You're not going to be able to reach it without some help-"

Molly opens her mouth, about to tell him tartly that of course she can, when she realises (belatedly) that he's right. She won't be able to reach. But surely he won't offer..?

He will.

With a bracing nod (and without waiting for her answer) he strides over to her, sits on the bed beside her. She's not sure why but immediately she pushes herself up into sitting, not comfortable for some reason with him staring down at her as she lies on her back.

 _There's something a little too… intimate in that, for a relationship like theirs,_ she thinks.

If Sherlock notices her unease, he gives no sign of it. Instead, he gives her another bracing nod and gestures for her to move closer to him. She does so, trying to ignore her pulse and the way it's starting to race, trying to ignore how flustered she feels and just focus on the fact that her friend is going to help her out a little since she's hurt. She nods to Sherlock, swallows nervously and then tries to pretend it wasn't nervous. She gestures to her back and says, "You can- You can, um, start. If you want. I don't mind…"

She looks up at him and he's staring, rather pointedly, at a spot on her duvet.

Molly frowns and as if seeing her reaction from the corner of his eye, he shoots her an almost-nervous little look. "You'll, em, you'll have to…"

"Have to what?"

He gestures tersely to the straps of her pyjama top. He seems to have trouble looking at her.

"You'll have to pull those down," he says quietly. "The burn goes right the way across, underneath the straps- I'll need to get the gel there too, and you really like those pyjamas- You won't want them ruined-"

"Oh."

"Yes," Sherlock says, sounding distracted. "Oh. But you can just- I don't think  _I_ should-"

Molly shakes her head. "Obviously not," she says, a little too quickly, a little too nervously. "But I can-"

And without finishing her sentence, she shuffles closer to him. She wobbles, nearly falls over, and has to place one hand on Sherlock's shoulder in order to steady herself. All this time Sherlock is looking downward, not making eye-contact, and she can't say she blames him.  _The awkwardness of the situation is starting to tell on her too_. Trying not to fall over or move any more than she needs to, her fingers find the top's straps and she pulls. First one, then the other, until they hang limply against her upper arms and she feels a flash of vulnerability she can't really understand.

A shiver moves through her at the thought.

Again he stares at the duvet while as she does it, his gaze only flickering up to peek from beneath his lashes once, just as she's pulling down the second strap. Clearly he's checking on her progress, seeing if she's done.

Though she's not suddenly showing any skin or anything, Molly feels the heat of that brief little look all the way down to her toes.

It's not that there's anything untoward in his asking her to move something about her person; It's actually surprisingly sweet, that he thought of it at all. And that he understood simply doing it himself, without her permission, might be a Bit Not Good. But the action itself? That feels a little too private, the sort of thing a person only does when they're undressing or removing a bra. The sort of thing which a person only does in front of someone they'd undress  _for_ , someone they'd remove their bra  _for_. Which is ridiculous of course, because Sherlock's not that to Molly and Molly's not that to Sherlock-

But still, as with lying on her back and looking up at him, this action feels… weighted.

_It feels a great deal more combustible than she thinks it ought._

All of this takes less than a minute, though it feels infinitely longer. Once the straps are down, Sherlock gestures to her and she stoops her head and shoulders awkwardly, trying to give him access. It doesn't work though; she'd have to lean far more deeply into his personal space for that to be useful and they are both instinctively hesitant to let that happen.

Instead, without warning Sherlock stands, making sure to grip the arm Molly was holding onto his shoulder with so that she doesn't fall over. His hand wraps easily around her upper arm, tightening as he stands and then loosening his grip before it can become painful.

It steadies her, allows her to stay upright. From his new vantage point she has to look up at him and she does with slightly widened, surprised eyes.  _He looks so much taller, so much_ _ **bigger**_ _than her in that still, quiet room._  Again the silence stretches out for a moment, again Sherlock stares at her. For a moment his hand goes towards her cheek, the movement almost unconscious, his eyes flicking down to her mouth and then up to her eyes before he once again stills.

The atmosphere in the room has turned electric now and he seems as aware of it as she.

"Turn around," he says softly, and Molly knows that she shouldn't shiver at the timbre of his voice, the way he says that.

She does it anyway.

"Would it be easier if you were sitting?" she asks slightly breathlessly, as she presents her back to him. She feels the bed dip again as he sits back down. Feels the vague heat of his body at her back as he leans in to her.

She can feel his breath on the back of her neck when he speaks this time and she knows it's ridiculous, but she shivers again.

"I'm going to start now," he says, and it sounds inane, and unnecessary, and absolutely befuddling. His voice has dropped, become a little deeper, and Molly closes her eyes, despite herself. Savours it.

It feels so… intimate, though she knows it's not that way for him.

There's a second's hesitation and then she feels his fingers, wet with the gel and so, so hesitant, press against the skin of her neck. His hand is so big that the palm covers almost all the flesh from the nape of her neck to the space between her shoulder-blades, his thumb whispering gently against her spine, against the side of her throat. For a moment he just presses his hand to her skin and then he moves, begins massaging the gel across her shoulders. Her upper back. It feels wonderful, despite the sunburn's soreness.

Without really meaning to Molly leans into him slightly, trying to make it easier, but that just makes the heat of his body that much more obvious against her bare skin.

Her eyes flutter shut-  _when had she opened them?-_ the feel of his fingers relaxing her. It's easier not to notice the atmosphere, to just feel, when she isn't staring straight ahead at a blank wall or looking into those quicksilver eyes. The gel feels soothing, his hands even more so; It takes barely a minute and then she feels him squeeze her shoulder. The mattress dips as he moves away from her.

"Done now," he says, and his voice is still a little breathless, even deeper than it usually is. "You can- you can fix your top," he adds after a moment, and suddenly there's no warmth at Molly's back. He must have stood.

She's surprised by how cold it feels.

She twists and looks around at him, opens her mouth to thank him, and whatever self-control Molly has just flies out the window as she sees the way he's looking at her.

Because hasn't stood up. He hasn't left her. His face is slightly flushed, his pupils dilated; His breathing is shallow, and when his gaze meets hers the arousal in his expression is impossible to mask. Molly feels it go off like a tiny bolt of lightning inside her: Recognition. The joy of reciprocation. The realisation of what they both want setting electricity zinging through her even as she instinctively leans forward-

It all happens so fast, Sherlock not moving, Sherlock not stopping her. There's a split second between her realisation and her lips meeting his and in that second he has his chance to move away, to avoid her, but he does not. No, instead he leans in towards her, clumsy in his eagerness-  _and the one this man never is, is clumsy_ \- his hands coming up to cup the back of Molly's head even as her own arms go haphazardly about his neck and their mouths meet. His chest flush against her chest, their breaths mixing one with the other. His clever fingers dig lightly at her skull, her scalp, and Molly's a little surprised by how good that feels. She moans at the sensation of it and she feels his mouth curve up into a smile, there where it's pressed against her own. Molly can't suite believe it; She's given better kisses, more skilled kisses, more expected kisses, but she's never felt what she feels when she meets Sherlock's kisses-

They're passionate. Greedy. Open-mouthed and longing and yet somehow strangely fragile. Chaste.  _Like he is_.

Molly thinks they might also be addictive.

And judging by the way he's kissing her back, it would seem that he feels the same about hers.

She doesn't know who moves, who  _decides_ , but suddenly they both on the bed and he's on top of her and the weight of him, the feel of him, is something that she never wants to be without again. So she winds her arms tighter, pulling him down to her, opening her legs so that his hips rest between them. Curling one leg around his hip, securing him to her and he takes in a sharp, puffing breath at the feel of it. Pressing himself more insistently to her, his mouth still pressed steadfast to hers.

She nips at his lip and Sherlock lets out a string of mumbled curse words against her mouth, her throat, his voice ragged with his loss of self-possession. His hand curls up to press, heavy and insistent, against her left breast, but he raises his head to look at her as he does it, his expression questioning. Intent. She nods breathlessly, her own hands scrabbling for purpose on the back of his dressing gown, pushing it away from his shoulders. The fingers of one hand dig into his arse, and judging by the moan of pleasure he gives he really,  _really_  likes that- So much so that she tries it again. The grin he shoots her is bright, wolfish, exuberant; she lifts her hips to his when she sees it, presses herself into him. He kneads her breast harder in answer, grinning as she arches herself into his hand more, her head falling back as she bares her throat to him-

And then suddenly there's a bang of a door opening at the front of the flat. The rustling sounds of several people moving, none too stealthily, through the kitchen and living room.

Instantly Sherlock freezes, and Molly is obliged to follow suit.

They hear heavy footsteps- it sounds like about ten people- which split into groups and move towards Sherlock's and Molly's rooms with stentorian force. People are barking about "alpha teams," and, "securing the target," but all Molly can think is that their timing is absolutely atrocious.

 _Seriously,_ she thinks,  _can't this wait until morning? Or some other time that isn't_ _ **now**_ _?_

Though the look on his face would suggest Sherlock agrees with her, he still disentangles himself and gets to his feet. Still pads towards the door, shrugging off his dressing gown as he goes- it was nearly off anyway- his shoulders straightening as if he's preparing for a fight. He reaches for the doorknob and turns, opening the bedroom door though he doesn't know what's on the other side of it-

And he is met by John Watson.

John Watson, who is standing there looking tired and irritated in a Kevlar vest, pyjamas and slippers, his familiar face set in a frown.

His eyes narrow almost comically when he sees his best friend.

The doctor takes in Molly, takes in Sherlock, probably takes in the state of the pair of them. And then with calm deliberation he pulls out his wallet. Produces a fiver from it.

"Mary," he calls over his shoulder. "You win. They are shagging."

Molly opens her mouth to correct him, but Sherlock turns puce and shuts his into a tight-lipped grimace. Shakes his head, once, sharply, at her and steps out of her room.

She doesn't see him for the rest of the night.


	5. The Properties of Candor

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

**~ THE PROPERTIES OF CANDOR ~**

* * *

 

_Five Days Later_

He comes home to her after she's done a double shift identifying the bodies in a massive five car pileup.

Two of them were under the age of ten, but she's not thinking about that.

She's so tired that she doesn't really open her eyes when he slips into bed beside her, just sleepily notes that Sherlock's home and that's a good thing though she can't really remember why.

She must say as much because he murmurs something soft in her ear as she falls back asleep, something gentle and quiet and utterly un-Sherlock-like. If she were a little more awake Molly would be concerned she didn't hear it, but given her tiredness she can't summon the requisite care. Instead she shivers, closes her eyes; His skin is cold from being outside and he smells of wind and rain as he presses his body tightly against hers. There's also the slightest whiff of arson, but it's Sherlock: What does she expect? Molly only really has time to burrow further under the covers, spreading them out and over his legs to flee the chill he's brought whilst simultaneously sheltering him from it-

And then she's asleep. It's her first decent night's rest since he went away, and she thinks disjointedly as she loses consciousness that of course he had to ruin it by waking her up.

 _Plonker,_ she thinks.  _Twat._

_I'm so glad he's alright, the idiot._

There's something illogical about that thought but she can't quite grasp it, and she's honestly too tired to give a rat's arse about it right now so she lets it go.

* * *

 

She wakes up to the sound of Mrs. Hudson closing the flat's door, having doubtless left Molly her tea for the morning.

There's a smell of something delicious that Molly suspects are scones wafting in from the living room, and it is this which finally prompts her to fully waken.

As she does she becomes aware of the arm thrown over her waist, the scent of singed hair which saturates her sheets. At some time in the night someone-  _Sherlock,_ her mind supplies _-_ has managed to streak soot and ash all over her chest and her pyjama bottoms, the imprint of his large hand tellingly pressed against her breast.  _Her heart._

The warmth of his long, lank form is obvious against her back, the feeling of his body against hers wanted. Molly sighs for a moment, unwilling to wake up enough to face the fact that he's in her bed and she hasn't spoken to him in nearly a week and the last time she did it was to snog him senseless-

"Molly?"

His voice cuts through the quiet of the morning, raspy from lack of sleep and sounding oh so familiar. Oh so hesitant.

For a moment she's tempted not to answer but you can't fool the Great Detective, so-

"Morning, Sherlock." She turns to him, surprised at how close his face is to hers.

She blinks and their lashes, their noses, nearly touch.

His eyes are brilliant in his pale face.

Without- she suspects- him quite realising it, Sherlock's gaze flutters momentarily down to her lips and then back up. He swallows noticeably.

Molly doesn't know why, but she follows suit.

"I fell asleep," he says, apparently unaware of how redundant that statement is. His eyes are bleary and he has the most spectacular pillow-crease she's ever seen on his left cheek, something which makes him look simultaneously adorable and ridiculous.

Molly wants to smooth her fingers across it, but she tells herself she can't. She feels her heart quicken slightly in her chest at the realisation, which makes her feel about twelve years old.  _Stupid hormones._

"I saw that," she murmurs, and then winces at how it sounds. Instantly she's awake, painfully aware of her faux pas. "That is, you were welcome to sleep here-"

"I was?"

There's something about the way he says it that makes her frown. Stop. Look at him.

He's not looking at her now, his gaze directed to the bed.

She leans in closer, curious, and touches his shoulder. He seems so… reticent. "Of course you were," she says quietly. "Whatever would make you think you weren't?"

He shrugs, an awkward thing that's trying to be nonchalance and failing abysmally. His mouth has set itself into a twisting, thin line. "You and I…" And he trails off. Frowns, gaze still directed to a spot on her mattress. He looks frustrated with himself. "We nearly-" he tries again, "Well, that is to say  _I_  nearly-"

"I nearly did too." Molly's not sure why her voice is small when she says it, but it's early and she's tired and she has this horrible, ominous feeling about what Sherlock's going to say to her. There's a desperate, sudden desire to put it off.

"So you didn't mind?" He asks quietly. "You didn't feel… Well, you didn't feel like I took advantage?"

"Of course not." Molly cocks her head. "Do you feel like I took advantage of you?"

"No, of course not." Again, he looks horrified.

"Then what's the problem?" She shoots him a narrow look. She knows him well. "Did you do something A Bit Not Good last night while I was asleep or something?"

_For all she knows, there are vials of anthrax in the fridge right now. Wouldn't be the first time._

"No!" Again he sounds scandalised. "What sort of person do you think I- You know, I'm not even going to answer that." And he looks up at her again, takes a deep breath. He seems to be working himself up to something else. "I slept right here," he says eventually. His voice is quiet. "I was too tired to get into my own bed, and I-" Again he takes a deep breath, "and I wanted to be here when you came in. I wanted- I  _had_  to see you."

Molly doesn't understand. "And you think that would make me angry at you?"

_He's a mystery to her sometimes._

"Yes!" He snaps. "No! I don't…Maybe?" He frowns again. Looks away again. Molly feels like their conversation is going in circles. "I get the signals wrong," he says quietly. "I misread things. And then people yell and throw things and call me a git-"

"People normally only do that when you insult them, Sherlock, and you know it." He pouts at her, expression turning mulish, but she presses on. "Do you think you insulted me last night?" she asks after a moment.

"No."

He sounds as truculent as a teenager.

"And have you insulted me in the last few weeks?"

"No." But this time he sounds less sure, his expression evasive, and again that slight jolt of fright goes through her chest. "But we- We nearly- That is to say-"

 _Oh, for the love of God!_ "We nearly shagged, Sherlock," she says succinctly. "Right here. You. Me. The aloe vera. The sunburn. Sexy times, all we needed was some Barry White-"

"It's not funny."

The way he says it, he sounds furious. Furious and heartbroken. He's lying there, his entire body as stiff as a pike, his face pulled into a thunderous expression and Molly can see…

He's genuinely upset. She didn't mean to genuinely upset him. But that would mean…

It hits her.

 _Oh. He thought…_ "I know it's not funny," she says soothingly. "It wasn't- I wasn't trying to be funny, Sherlock." He shoots her a cocked eyebrow and she allows him the point. "Well, I was. But I wasn't trying to be funny about… us.  _That._ I wasn't… I wasn't making a jeer of what we did. I wouldn't. It- It was too… nice. Too good."

Again she swallows nervously.

"I was really glad it happened, I just… I just didn't know, I mean I  _don't_ know, whether, um, you were. Glad, that is." She peeks at him and now he's looking at her, awfully hard. "Are you glad? That it happened?"

He gives one swift, sharp nod. "Yes. I- I was sorry it didn't happen…more. For longer."

"Me too. Longer would've been… good."

"I know. Longer would've been  _excellent_." He sounds so bereft that she has to smile and when he sees this he visibly softens. "But then I had to go after Moriarty, and I had to leave you here behind…"

He trails off and Molly can hear the question hovering, unspoken, over his statement.

"Did you get him?" she asks quietly and once again Sherlock gives that sharp, quick nod.

"We did," he says. "He won't ever hurt anyone again- You can take my word on that. Mary emptied an entire clip into him."

"Oh. Well, then, that's reassur-" But before she can finish he suddenly reaches her for head, his hand cupping her skull as he pulls her to him and presses this fierce, wild little kiss between her eyebrows. Presses his own forehead against hers and leaves it there. Holds her close. She feels his hands tighten on her hair and suddenly there's a hand on her hip, holding her tight, scrunching the fabric together.

His breathing has gotten deep and sharp an rapid. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut.

Molly isn't really sure what to do so she doesn't pull away, just strokes her hand soothingly against his hip. The small of his back.  _He seems to need it._ She can feel his breath against her skin and it's loud, anxious. She doesn't know what's happening, only that he seems to want to be close to her. Seems to need her as the silence stretches out. But then-

"He said things," Sherlock mutters, and Molly's not sure whether the words are directed to her or he's speaking out loud. "Moriarty, he said things. Things about John and Mary, their child. Things about you-"

And his voice cuts off. Another harsh breath is taken.

Molly takes the hand which was at his waist and trails it upwards. Strokes it through his hair. She isn't sure she wants to hear what Dear Old Jim said, but she thinks she might have to.

_Not knowing will drive her mental, and Sherlock probably needs to say it out loud._

"What did the git say?" she asks, trying to keep her voice calm. She can feel Sherlock shaking his head, there where it's pressed against hers, and she doesn't think he'll answer. But then-

"He said he'd… He said that he'd find you," he says quietly. His voice sounds strangled. "He said- He said he'd come back and make you give an, an  _encore performance_. That he'd, he'd make you pay for tricking him-"

And this time he pulls her completely to him, his free arm wrapping around her waist as if he's afraid someone's going to take her from him.  _Now she's sure he needs her there._

Molly lets him do it, moving her own body against his and murmuring softly to him that she's here, it's ok, it's over now. She's not sure what she's more disgusted about, the fact that Jim threatened her, or the fact that Jim thought taunting Sherlock with their one mediocre night together was a-ok.

 _Criminal geniuses,_ she thinks.  _They don't really make the best feminists, do they?_

As she's thinking this, she realises Sherlock's opened his eyes. He's staring rather pointedly at her. There's an intentness in his gaze that tells her he has something important to say.

"I didn't listen," he says quietly then. "I didn't- I threw you into his path. It was my fault, what happened to you-"

"What happened to me was a bad night's shag with a scum-bag and a merciful escape, nothing more."

"But I-"

"You didn't." And without really thinking why, she kisses him, a chaste little peck on his left cheek. He blinks owlishly at her.

"I wasn't happy about what happened, but he didn't-" She sighs.  _She knows what he's really asking._ "It messed me up for a long time, that I didn't clock it, you know? We were as close as two people could physically be, and I didn't realise what he was."

Sherlock's gaze is still riveted on hers.

"But I didn't see anything. I didn't  _guess_ anything. He doesn't have cloven hooves or a forked tail, I'd have noticed, and…"

She takes a deep breath. Sighs.  _This might be where the choo-choo jumps the track on this conversation_.

"And I didn't hate it," she says. Now she watches Sherlock, because lying would be easier but she won't do that to him. He has grown very, very still. "He didn't hurt me and he didn't threaten me," she says quietly. "It wasn't weird. Neither of us wore a gimp mask or a Nazi uniform. Nothing got put in a new place. And yeah, it was sex without knowing who he was but I can live with that; It's horrid, but it could've been worse. I just didn't enjoy it over-much, but that's not unusual, the first time you have sex with someone-"

He blinks. "So it's not normally like it was with us?" he asks.

He sounds like he's trying to pretend he's not interested, and it makes Molly smile when she didn't think she had a smile left in her.

 _The wonders of the male ego are astonishing_.

"No, Sherlock," she says, willing to tease him a little if it drives the worry from his expression.  _Besides, it's nothing but the truth._ "It's not normally that good the first time," she says, "but when the two people know each other, and care, and are both, you know, sort of sex Jedi - which I think maybe we both are-"

He perks up visibly at this. "What's a sex Jedi?" he inquires with genuine interest.

"Ask John," she deadpans.

He narrows his eyes, more the old Sherlock now. His smile is getting looser, less strained and oh, Molly's glad. "You're setting up an opportunity for him to mock me," he says. "Admit it."

She makes a show of shrugging, glad to be getting off the topic of Jim Moriarty and his Complete Bastardhood. They'll have the full talk someday, but someday is not today. "Only one way to find out," she says matter-of-factly. "Ask him. Ask John- Or Mary. Tell her I call you Obi-Wan Cumobi and see what she says-"

This time she can't help it, she giggles and he matches her. Grins. The tension in him loosens, eases, and Molly can't help herself, she presses another chaste little peck to his lips. Sherlock blinks again, bringing his fingers up to trace his lower lip.

"It's remarkable," he says. "My skin's reaction to that. I've- Well, I've had coitus, obviously-"

"Obviously," Molly says dryly, grinning.

He shoots her a  _behave yourself look._ It's surprisingly sexy. "I've had coitus," he repeats in a long-suffering tone, "but I haven't ever felt a reaction like that. It bears investigating."

Molly shrugs again. Smiles. "See?" she says, pointing at herself. "Sex.  _Jedi_."

"I believe you may be right." He nods thoughtfully, stroking at his recently-kissed lip. It is, she has to admit, an attractive sight. "You've set up an hypothesis, I believe I should put it to the test," he says quietly. "Are there any particular things about being a Sex Thingy I should know?"

She smiles and shakes her head. "No, just be aware we can't perform our heats of amorous skill on an empty stomach." As if to prove her point, her stomach gives a loud rumble and he frowns. "Mrs. Hudson left breakfast outside, if you want it," she says, pulling herself out of bed and searching for her housecoat. "It should still be hot if we go now-"

She feels his hands on her waist, feels him physically haul her back into the bed and against him. For one moment his arms are wrapped around her from behind, her body tucked between his legs and once again, he's tense. His breath is sharp.

He's holding her so tightly.

"You promise you're alright?" he asks, and it's a breath, that question. A whisper.

Molly nods earnestly and tries to embrace him as tightly as he's embracing her. "I'm fine," she says. "Are you alright?" And she curls her fingers through his, there where they're laced across her tummy.

For a moment he doesn't answer her, but then she feels his grip on her loosen. Feels his lips pressed to the bare skin of her shoulder as he breathes her in.

"I will be," he says and whatever else may have happened today, Molly believes him. The thought is a relief.

They walk out to the kitchen holding hands and eat breakfast in the pale, golden London light.


	6. The Properties of Intimacy

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to oOKatiekinsOo, spuffygirl, BettySparrow, asylum69 and Sherlockian87. Second to last chapter, enjoy!

* * *

**~ THE PROPERTIES OF INTIMACY ~**

* * *

  _Over The Next Couple of Months_

She… does things now.

Things she didn't used to do before.

Things that please and confuse Sherlock in equal measure, leaving him feeling entirely unsure how to proceed.

Like, for example, the snogging. (And there is rather a lot of snogging these days). Molly will come home from work, all tired and grumbly and irritated, and Sherlock will assume that she doesn't want to talk, or she's had a bad day. He may even try to do something nice like make her a cup of tea, because a grumbly Molly is not really the sort of thing he wants to deal with and she knows where he keeps all the flammables in the flat now.

(She also knows where he keeps his weaponry, but that's another story entirely).

Before he even gets a chance to placate her however, she'll shoot him this sort of, of,  _look,_ which manages to be both brazen and entirely adorable at the same time. It will usually be accompanied by a widening of her lovely brown eyes and a bitten lip, a loosening of her body language and a come-hither swaying of her hips.  _Whatever it is that she does, he has no doubt he will find it… enticing. Idiotically enticing._ So idiotically enticing that Sherlock will stop whatever he's doing and blink.

Stare.

Swallow.

Sometimes he tries, unsuccessfully, to ask her how her day's been.

But then she'll drop her bag on the floor and shimmy out of her coat and she'll just sidle over to him, bold as you please, and start snogging him. Really, thoroughly snogging him. Like, hands-in-new-places and my-I-didn't-realise-I-liked-having- _that_ \- tugged snogging him.

And Sherlock-

_Well, Sherlock will quite lose the run of himself, is what he'll do._

He'll start touching her back and kissing her back, breathlessly lifting her up and signalling for her to wrap her legs around him because apparently he has a hither-fore unknown Thing about that. He'll start squeezing her bum and kneading her breasts- he has a Thing about that too, apparently- all the time entirely unmindful of what he was previously doing, or what work might be lost by his idiocy.

He won't even care if he looks like an idiot as he stumbles into the parlour and lays her down on the table, the couch or the floor.

For some reason, it simply won't matter to him.

He may start mumbling shite he doesn't really remember saying.

For some reason, that won't matter to him either.

She won't say much beyond a breathless, rudimentary "hello," and Sherlock certainly won't try and talk to her, he'll just find himself breathless and hard within minutes, his lap full of Molly and a handful of whatever part of her he's managed to gain access to. In the course of the next hour or so one or both of them (though usually he) will be divested of their clothing and an experiment in how much you can lick, scratch, bite, suck, pinch and stroke a human body before it spontaneously combusts will commence.

_And it will feel, as it always does, absolutely bloody divine._

The next day he'll find his half-finished experiment and he'll wonder what the Hell he thought he was playing at, letting his Girlf- his Molly distract him like that. Letting her ply him with her womanly charms and pelvic sorcery until he's putty in her hands. He'll resolve to never let her do it again; He'll resolve to put his foot down, Damn it! He'll resolve to make her talk to him because he is not a sex object, for God's sake, and he can't just turn himself on and off whenever she feels like it-

But then she'll wander home and look at him with her big brown eyes and oops! Sherlock's on his back on his sofa and halfway to Paradise and he can't even remember why he thought this was a bad idea originally. He just knows that he really, really,  _really_  likes the whole snogging thing, even though it makes him feel uneasy sometimes. Worried. Out of control.

But then Molly and he will come up for air and he won't know why but they'll both laugh, loud and long, like two bloody teenagers.

They'll smile at one another.

They'll whisper.

They won't talk about why he only feels comfortable going as far as this.

They'll nuzzle and caress and it will feel wonderful, so wonderful that Sherlock can't imagine why it's making him feel out of sorts. He'll forget that it makes him fret sometimes.

He'll forget that the thought of doing more than kissing can bring him out in a cold sweat.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Molly will say. Her eyes will shine with happiness. "I can't believe I'm kissing Sherlock Holmes..."

Sherlock can't believe it either, but he hasn't the words to tell her that without feeling like a clot.  _He hasn't the words to explain this._ So he'll snog her again, and he won't say anything.

He knows he shouldn't, but he trusts that she understands him all the same.

* * *

 She… does things now.

Things she didn't used to do before.

Things that make Sherlock roll his eyes and gnash his teeth because seriously, who does she think she is?

Take, for example, her moving the cutlery in the kitchen. He always kept it in one place-  _Well, saying he kept it there is being generous, he usually generally just throws it in that drawer in exasperation_ \- but Molly doesn't like that. Says it's unhygienic in point of fact, so she changes that drawer's designation, after cleaning it out and disinfecting all its previous contents with bleach.

(She claims that she also had it exorcised by their local Catholic priest but Sherlock feels she may be pulling his leg on that).

Whatever the truth of  _that_ story though, the purpose of the left drawer from the right in the kitchen cabinet is changed: It is now apparently where Sherlock keeps his notes, pens, safety goggles and labelling equipment. It is also where he keeps his pliers and spare magnifying glass. Sherlock feels this is an overreaction- she had found mould growing on a measly four spoons out of his total of eight, so now she says having eating utensils next to his experiments is dangerous-  _Which is clearly preposterous._

It's health and safety gone mad, is what it is. The woman is losing the run of herself, and such a thing is not to be borne; a man's home is his castle, etc. etc. etc.

When he points all this out during an argument however, she asks calmly whether he liked missing out on that case is Oslo because he was so sick with food-poisoning that he lost nearly a stone in a week and couldn't get out of bed?  _Because next time she_ _'_ _s not nursing him._

He gives her an intelligent, mature, well-thought-out reaction: He pouts. (He says he's brooding, but apparently brooding is merely pouting with intent. He can thank Mary Watson for informing him of this fact.) Molly however is unimpressed with his logic- and his pout, however manly- and she says that since she is now living in Baker Street then she should get to decide whether that is to be an even more extreme sport than it already is-

Sherlock doesn't argue because it's the first time she's said she's living here- Previous to this she has always stated that she's, "staying here." "Just stopping by." "In between flats."

Staying and living are not the same things and he knows that.

This thought pleases him.

So, with a martyred sigh and a secret allowance that perhaps this arrangement might be beneficial, Sherlock gives in and permits the Moving of the Drawers to commence.

It's surprisingly less tedious than he thought it would be, and there are benefits to letting her have her way, he soon learns.  _Naked_  benefits.

 _He still thinks she_ _'_ _s overreacting about the spoons though._

* * *

 There are times when her bluntness surprises him.

After all, he'd spent several years assuming her to be quiet and timid; Realising that she's forward when it comes to things which are important to her (like sex, for example) comes, therefore, as a bit of a shock.

But blunt is what she undoubtedly is: One day she just comes out and asks him, after one of their epic snogging sessions have ended, why they're not doing anything else?

You know, sexually?

_As if he was going to assume she meant, "cartographically."_

"I mean, it's not like I don't love this," she informs him matter-of-factly.  _The way she's nibbling at his lower lip while she says this certainly gives that impression_. "And it's not like we can't wait, if that's what you want. We can, I don't mind."

And she pulls away from his lip. Beams at him.

Sherlock genuinely thinks she's telling him the truth.

This realisation is both welcome and dismaying, a combination he is learning more and more to associate with her.

Sherlock blinks at her and sputters, honestly unable to provide an answer (and acutely embarrassed that he can't). Unable to explain what he's worried about. Why it feels so terrifying, the thought of her and him just, just-

Letting go.

_He just can't seem to bear the thought of letting go._

It's ridiculous really, he tells himself. Before he went away on the Moriarty hunt they very nearly shagged each other silly, right there on Molly's bed.

But that had been different, that had been building for weeks and he hadn't had a chance to think about it and he hadn't given himself a chance to get worked up about what would happen if he and Molly took that step in their relationship and it didn't work out and now it's not just sex, it's liking and wanting and what if he makes another hames of it?-

"Sherlock," she says soothingly, "Sherlock, it's only a question.

You don't have to have an answer for me right now if you don't want to."

He blinks at her and realises that yes, he's breathing rather heavily and feeling acutely embarrassed. So embarrassed that Molly has pulled her top back on and dragged over his housecoat in case he wants to put it back on. He also seems to have disappeared off into his head for a moment there, something he tries not to do in front of her; Hiding in his Mind Palace is too easy, especially when he's uncomfortable.

The silence stretches out. It practically echoes with expectation.

She smiles at him again, patient and waiting as always, and he says the only thing he can say, the only thing he wants to say.

"I don't know why we haven't," he blurts out then. "But I don't think- I don't think I'm ready."

_And oh, but he hates admitting that._

She frowns at him though. Nods slowly. She smiles at him again and places the tiniest, most chaste little peck on the tip of his nose. "Thanks then, for answering me," she says. She waggles her eyebrows. "I thought that might be it, I just wanted to be sure.

So… Do you want to go for another round?"

Again he blinks at her.  _He doesn't understand_. "So you- I mean, you'd thought about it? And you didn't- You were alright with it? With me not- With us not-"

Molly raises her eyebrows in surprise. "Of course I'm fine with it," she says. "I wouldn't want you to do anything you wouldn't want to do, I just thought I should check in and make sure you were alright." She shrugs. "You're not a talker, not about these types of things, so I asked. It's not a big deal, Sherlock."

She frowns, a thought occurring to her. "The snogging and the cuddling doesn't bother you, does it? Because if we're moving too fast with that-"

He shakes his head, shoots her a cocked eyebrow, relieved to be able to take refuge in sarcasm.

"We're both half naked and have been for an hour," he points out. "Yes, I think I can handle the snogging. I refuse to term what we do as cuddling though."

Molly laughs. She looks relieved. "Good to hear, and to know." She lowers her head, looks up at him through lowered lashes. Her expression might best be described as sinful. "So shall we get back to it, then?"

And with that she kisses him again, and they fall back into what they were doing.

Sherlock feels simultaneously relieved and bewildered, but at least he knows how Molly handles these things now.

* * *

 The Boyfriend Bit is the hardest, Sherlock must admit.

It's the thing he needs to most guidance to pull off.

Because he knows he's not good with feelings, and most of the time he's terrified when they fight because he assumes that she'd just go away and not try to work through it and never even talk to him again and then he would have lost his Molly, which would be awful. Just awful.

And yet, he's a stubborn man. He knows this. He's used to having his own way, and he's used to being master of his own destiny. He's not used to having anyone to answer to, and on some level he resents that he has that now, no matter how much he might lov- care about her.  _No matter how much he might care about her._

He tried to explain this to John once, and John told him he was being a pillock.

Of course, it took him a few moments to realise that John meant he was being a pillock in thinking Molly would disappear, not in asking the question.

Sherlock had been rather relieved by this. So had Mary.

(Sherlock had informed her that, if push came to shove, he would be moving in with her and John.

Mary had informed him she still owned a firearm and that quite put an end to that discussion).

So no, Sherlock knows the boyfriend stuff isn't easy. He has a tendency to make a hames of it. In fact, he thinks he might be the world's worst boyfriend sometimes, and he includes people like Jim Moriarty in that list. Hell, he puts Magnusson on that list, and the mere thought of that git being anywhere near his Molly makes his blood run cold. But for some reason, even when he makes a hames of it, Molly seems to like him still…

He can tell because no matter how angry she gets at him, she never actually hits him with any of the pillows she throws.

_For someone with such excellent marksmanship skills - Mycroft gave her some training during his Hiatus- Molly is remarkably bad at actually hitting him._

So when he comes home on October 12th to find her crying quietly into a cup of tea, and he demands to know what the devil's the matter with her, and it turns out that the anniversary of her father's death from cancer is what the devil's the matter with her- Even when he does that, she doesn't leave him. She doesn't call him names or tell him he's a machine or a freak because he doesn't know what to do with that information. How to make it better for her.

No, his Molly doesn't do anything angry at all.

_It's one of the things Sherlock finds simultaneously so lovely and so confusing about her._

Instead, she asks for more tea and, once he provides it, she starts telling him about her dad. Not stories about when he was sick, but stories about when she was a little girl. Adventures, games, secrets they had together.

 _The sorts of stories Sherlock has about Mycroft, though he knows he_ _'_ _s not allowed tell a soul._

But there are stories, so many stories that Molly tells him. Stories that paint her in ways not even his gifts can, that tell him who she sees herself as being without having to rely on deductions or guesses. Take, for example, her relationship with her grandmother: After her mother died, she and her father had been forced to move in with her father's mother for several years, a hard old woman who had been raised to believe children should be seen and not heard. (It is from this upbringing that Molly's quietness springs, not any real timidity on her part. Sherlock sometimes wonders who she'd be without this experience but he likes who she is so much that he decides he'd rather not know).

When she talks about the way her father smiled at her the day they finally left his mother's house Sherlock puts his arms around her and shushes her.

He even lets her sniffle on him, toe-curling embarrassment be damned.

Because she's not telling Sherlock anything he hasn't deduced before- He's always known she adored her father, and her ease around men long ago indicated to him that she'd grown up predominantly surrounded by them.  _It_ _'_ _s why she takes his more blokish moments with a pinch of salt._ Even the revelation about her grandmother hadn't surprised him, he'd just assumed the stern caregiver had also been male.

But to hear her speak it- It's different.

_There's a power in the fact that she told him, of her own free will._

The stories are tedious, and not enjoyable, and he finds them boring, but he still sticks around and listens to them. He still makes sure that Molly  _knows_  that he's listening. No matter how banal her memories are, they're hers. And she's his.

 _It_ _'_ _s an odd sort of sorcery, this little jolt of lightning between them._

And when she finally falls asleep that night, having cried herself out, he brings her to bed and holds her tightly. He will not admit he did this to anyone in the world.


	7. The Properties of Tenderness

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to  spuffygirl, atomicflea, oOkatiekinOo, Norwaycat and vaticancameos00 . I know I said this would be the last chapter but I think there's one more we have to go through. And, before I forget, it has come to my attention that one of the jokes in the last chapter, the one about Molly's "pelvic sorcery," has actually been lifted from  _Guardians of the Galaxy._ I  _knew_ it sounded familiar! But apologies for the inadvertant plagiarism all the same.  

* * *

**~ THE PROPERTIES OF TENDERNESS ~**

* * *

_And Over The Months After That…_

He's sweet sometimes, that's the thing that surprises Molly the most as she settles into life in Baker Street.

Sometimes Sherlock's sweet. Hesitant. Patient.

Sometimes, inexplicably, he's even… shy.

She'd expected he'd be cavalier and brilliant and hair-pullingly impossible- and of course sometimes he  _is_ \- but she hadn't expected him to be any of those other things. She certainly hadn't expected him to make the effort he makes with her, not given who he is and how he usually treats people. Sherlock Holmes, she knows, is neither fluffy nor cuddly, not by a long-shot.

 _Except, of course, for when he_ _**is** _ _._

And when he is, it's usually when he's with her.

It's the wonder of this that keeps Molly in Baker Street, even when her friends and sometimes even her sanity keep saying that she'd be better off moving out and leaving the "man-child from Hell," (Meena's exact phrase) to his own devices.

It's the wonder of this that keeps her in his bed, even when she knows he's far away on a case and might not be home for weeks. (It doesn't matter, the bed still smells like him).

It's the wonder which keeps her waiting, patiently, while he tries to navigate their relationship and how difficult he finds it, tripping over his tongue and making the most ridiculous, insulting faux pas and demands as he does it. (Truly, the man has a way with both words and people.)

But she keeps going, because none of that matters. When he  _is_ home, when he  _is_  making the effort, when he  _is_ alone with her, he's…  _He's_ _ **her**_ _Sherlock_. She gets to see something in him she doubts anyone, except perhaps John Watson, has ever gotten to see.

_And she understands how lucky she is because of that without having to be told._

Oh, he's not a walk in the park to live with, by any means. There are times when she genuinely wonders whether the contents of the fridge are being sponsored by a chemical weapons manufacturer, so terrifying is the Darwinian struggle for dominance clearly going on therein.

There are times she wants to find the person who invented noise-cancelling ear-phones and give them a lifetime supply of chocolate since- thanks to her boyfriend's tendency to play violin at four in the morning- their invention is the reason she has gotten enough sleep to not succumb to a psychotic break.

There are times when she could murder him, absolutely murder him, for how smug and superior and, and bloody  _Sherlockian_  he is when he's making his deductions-

And then he'll do something, like look at her askance and offer her a cup of tea out of nowhere. Not trying to gain leverage, just because he thinks she'll enjoy one.

He'll do something like ask her, quietly, whether she wants to see the new slide he's set up for her because he thinks she'll like the fractal pattern of whatever substance he's experimenting on, and when she says yes he'll beam at her like he's just performed a magic trick that he was terribly nervous to try.

And just like that, whatever anger she may have been feeling will go. The frustration too. Molly will feel something which she suspects is her heart give an odd, jittery flip-flop of emotion and suddenly… Suddenly she feels about fifteen again, discovering boys and romance and unsure of it all but not caring one jot because she's in this with someone who's as mental and shaky and confused as she is-

_And that's bloody marvellous._

Because Molly's never had that, not in any of the relationships she's been in. She's always been the quiet one, the girl chosen because someone wants to be flash and clever and knows she'll be a good resource to have at their back. Every relationship she's had, even the one with "rising star," games developer Tom, boiled down in some way to this situation:  _She's a safe pair of hands_.  _He's the centre of attention, good-natured or otherwise_. She doesn't mind it, never has, and of course she knows that she's all but invisible next to Sherlock, a dull grey pigeon next to a peacock-

But she doesn't care. It works.  _They work_.

And no matter how nervous either of them are, this thing between them just seems to keep on working, even surviving the continued lack of shagging (the snogging more than makes up for it) and Sherlock's continued tendency to let his foot live in his mouth (to be fair, people often try to shoot him when he annoys them so karma is having her day).

It's all a bit of a mystery really-  _At least, it is to everyone else._ But not to Molly. She knows how to handle her boyfriend, and she knows why she stays:  _She loves him_. She wants to be with him. She would be bored with someone else now, she's gotten a taste of life in his world. And- despite his occasional, maladjusted social pyrotechnics- she knows that he's a good boyfriend.

He makes the effort. He learns from his mistakes.

He tries to- and often succeeds in- making her happy.

She's not sure why everyone else seems to surprised at this (with the exception of the Watsons) but since everyone else isn't living with him and she is, everyone else can bugger off and mind their own bloody business.

She tells Sherlock this one night and he stares at her in wonderment. It looks like he's forgotten how to blink, for a minute. (This is what John calls his, "screen-saver mode.") And then he takes her face in his hands and kisses her until they're both wide-eyed and panting and breathless.

"Me too," he says before going back to kissing her like the pair of them have invented the concept and need to road-test it for kinks.

* * *

She learns that all the Holmes are born with a stealth mode, and Mycroft and Sherlock clearly inherited theirs from their mother.

Through no means that she can trace Sherlock somehow manages to get her and his mother together for afternoon tea at the Dorchester whilst  _also_ skip out on the meeting, citing a case-

"Case, my arse," Molly mutters as she watches her boyfriend's gleefully retreating back.

She then belatedly realises that she said that in front of said boyfriend's mother.

Alexandra Holmes merely chortles though, grinning. "Oh yes," she says. "I can absolutely see what Mary meant: my boy has finally found himself a match in you, hasn't he?"

Molly blinks, surprised. "You like that I swore and called your son a liar?" she asks.

_She's not touching the whole my-boy's-found-a-match thing with a ten foot pole._

Alexandra's grin widens, the expression surprisingly mischievous. She reaches over for the teapot and pours Molly a cup, just the right amount, before placing a small éclair at her elbow, then a sliver of lemon tart.

Molly elects not to ask how the other woman knew those would be her favourites.

_She's seen that magic trick before, though she never considered who precisely had invented it._

"My son is a great many things," Alexandra is saying. "A decent liar is not on the list." She snorts, cynical and amused. "And if he's got a case, I'm the Empress of India-"

She shoots Molly a shrewd, astute look, though she still appears friendly.

Despite herself Molly stiffens, and as she notes it Alexandra's gaze softens the tiniest bit.

"But then if you've survived living with him for, what is it now? Eight months? You've clearly learned to tell when he's lying too," she says.

She inclines her head. Molly does likewise.

"It's a good thing you have," she informs her confidentially. "He'd be utterly impossible to live with if you hadn't, believe me."

And- the ice thus broken- Mrs. Alexandra Holmes begins regaling Molly with talk of her sons, and her husband, and how she keeps photos of Mycroft's  _Flock of Seagulls_ stage as collateral should he ever try to get out of coming home for Christmas dinner. (Sherlock's are not, apparently, nearly so embarrassing but she has evidence of a  _Danger Mouse_ fixation when he was ten and that keeps him in line.)

Molly nods and listens, occasionally adding the few "safe," stories she has about her life in Baker Street, and in this way she passes a very pleasant afternoon indeed.

Sherlock doesn't get back until after midnight and when he's getting into bed he's grinning at the message Mummy left on his phone.

* * *

The man is physically incapable of sleeping like a human being.

In fact, judging on his usual sleeping habits Molly is starting to think Sherlock may be the missing evolutionary link between homo sapiens and starfish.

But no matter how many times she wakes up with him spread-eagled across the bed like some sort of invading army, and no matter how many times she digs him in the ribs and tries to steal back the duvet he's hogged, she always wakes up wrapped around him the next day. Arms around his waist. Face planted in his chest. Most of the time she's even snuggled into him, as if he's some sort of large, bony electric blanket that she's elected to adopt-

Sherlock seems to think this means that, secretly, she likes when he tries to take over the bed because it means she has an excuse to cling on to him and, ahem, "cop a feel," however chaste her behaviour might otherwise be.

Molly calls him an idiot and beats him with a pillow every time he says this, but the belief- as well as the practice- inexplicably persists.

* * *

He comes home from a case with John with a bruised lip in late September. .

Both he and John resolutely refuse to explain what happened.

It's a "Bloke Thing," apparently.

_Molly has a sneaking suspicion it's actually an "Idiot Thing," but she has no proof._

Eventually however, after days of pleading and worrying and threatening to call his mother, Mary reveals that Sherlock ran into Tom and some… Well, some words were had. Loud, guttural, Anglo-Saxon ones regarding the way Tom spoke to the media after his and Molly's break-up and Moriarty's reappearance. Loud, guttural, Anglo-Saxon ones that resulted in both Sherlock, Tom and John being kicked out of the  _Queen's Peace_ in Dagenham and told to sling their collective hook.

"Sherlock felt he was defending your honour," Mary tells her, eyes glinting with glee as she recounts the story. "How much the pint John got into him before they spotted Tom had to do with that is anyone's guess." She shakes her head. "The man has to learn to hold his drink, I've told him before-"

"And what exactly did, "defending my honour," entail?" Molly asks warily.

She's not sure she really wants to know the answer, but she asks anyway.

The other woman chortles. "It involved Sherlock calling Tom a tosser and then some rather manly fisticuffs, apparently. Might have gone further but the hubbie managed to force The Thin White Hope into a cab." She grins. "John says it was hilarious-"

"Well then good for him, I suppose." Molly stares at her friend for a moment, trying to think of how she wants to phrase her reaction to this information: On the one hand, Sherlock is usually lethal and Tom was both a pillock, and extremely lucky his opponent was drunk. On the other, this is the twenty-first century and her boyfriend acted like an idiot.

_She hopes she can articulate the delicacy of the conundrum she faces._

"Mary," she says eventually. "Is it possible to think someone's both a wanker and a sweetheart at the same time?"

Mrs. Watson snorts again. "Of course it is, Mols," she says wisely, picking up little Lizzie and cooing at her. "The institution of marriage would be in dire trouble if it wasn't."

Molly mulls over this until Sherlock comes home that evening; When he plops down on the sofa beside her she gives him a sharp clip on the back of the head and then snogs him. Hard.

"You do realise this is sending me somewhat mixed signals," he points out breathlessly when they finally come up for air.

"To quote the Bard," she says, "Shut up and play tonsil hockey."

And that is exactly what he does.

* * *

The anniversary of Magnusson's death comes around and Sherlock's reaction catches her by surprise.

She rather thought he'd be moody, or disappear for a few days, or become obsessed with a case. She was prepared for tantrums, and arguments, and to be so frustrated with him that she'd have Mary and Meena on permanent speed-dial.

The reality, however, turns out to be quite different.

Because he just goes… quiet, for a few days. Not Silent Treatment quiet, not Disconnected quiet, just… uncommunicative. Introverted. Unwilling to talk to anyone- except John- and disinclined towards anything, including cases and sleeping.

And needless to say, this scares the living daylights out of her.

Molly doesn't know what to make of it; on the one hand, she's relieved. She wasn't looking forward to the drama of Sherlock's reliving the Appledore incident, and she suspects he knows it. But on the other hand… Surely his reticence means that something is wrong?

Because if it doesn't then where is the tinderbox genius she knows?

Where is her Sherlock?

And if this isn't her Sherlock, then which of his many, less-than-charming former incarnations is she going to meet?

_Does she even want to know?_

Because she's afraid he's using something to remain this calm. She's afraid that he's trying to spare her. He's said words to this effect when he's particularly manic before, and she's well aware of his past.  _The last time he had Magnusson-related stress he went on a bender and ended up peeing in a cup for her._ But Molly can't figure out a way of discussing her fears without it sounding like she's accusing him of something, and anyway she doesn't want him to end up reassuring her, this should be about reassuring him-

Meena, less than sympathetic after years of hearing her best friend break her heart over The Git in the Swishy Coat, insists that she should just stop pussy-footing around and, "ask him straight out."

Mary, more kindly-disposed to the git in question and having been present during the Magnusson case in a way which Molly was not, tells her to have some faith in her boyfriend and trust that eventually, he'll come back to her.

Perhaps wisely Molly decides to go with Mary on this.

_After all, it's not usually wise to bet against a woman with as… varied a field of experience as the current Mrs. Watson._

Which is why, when Sherlock comes to her at three in the morning, bleary-eyed after a night spent in John's house and shaking like a leaf with his stress, she knows what to do. She opens her arms without hesitation and wraps him in them. Lets him press his head to her chest and just breathe tightly, in then out, in then out as he tries to tell her what's wrong. Eventually he starts talking, murmuring about worries, about nightmares, telling her how sometimes his mind comes up with painfully vivid scenarios and shows them to him in detail-

"Magnusson has video of you and Tom," he says, "and he threatens to release it. Or he has footage of someone hurting you and he makes me watch it, over and over again."

He shakes his head as she tries to soothe him, her fingers twining through his hair.

His grip on her feels tight, anxious, and when she looks at him in the pale lamplight she can see panic buzzing through his frame.

"He tries to take little Lizzie from John," he's saying, "or he tells her enemies where Mary is now, what name she's living under. He tells what's left of Moriarty's network where my parents are, and Mycroft says he won't intervene."

Without warning he moves, positions himself so that now he's looking down at Molly.

The emotion in his gaze is so electric she find she can't look away.

"I can't stop it," he's saying, " _I can't ever stop it._ And the people I love always end up paying the price-"

She reaches out for him, pulls her to him again.  _This time, it's her grip that's fierce._

He's so stiff, so unyielding, as if in giving in an inch he fears he might surrender to his fears altogether, but she won't let that happen to him.

"Magnusson is gone, Sherlock," she says quietly. Soothingly. "He's never coming back, he's not like Moriarty. And even if he wasn't…" She sighs. Looks this man, this man she would do anything for. This man she adores without reservation.

_She knows what she wants to tell him, she just doesn't know how he'll react._

"I wouldn't care if it was dangerous," she says. "I'd stay. I'd find a way. And then we'd kick the bastard's arse, because that's what us lot do, isn't it? We stop the monsters." She smiles a wanly. "Or, at least, you do."

And she places the tiniest, gentlest kiss on his forehead.

His skin feels cold beneath her lips, but she doesn't comment on it and neither does he.

Sherlock looks at her for a moment though, this intent, assessing look that she's never seen from him before.  _She has the oddest feeling that she is being weighed and measured_. But then-

"You're more than capable of fighting monsters, Molly," he tells her, some of the tension going out of him. He slackens against her, curling his body protectively over hers and tucking her head in beneath his chin. With a sigh he moves them so that they're on their sides, Molly pulled tightly into his body, his breath ticklish against the crown of her hair.

It only occurs to her after he's fallen asleep that tonight is the first time she's ever heard him say he loves her.


	8. The Properties of Clarity

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Sherlockian_87, Bella_Cuore, miabicicletta, Quills, spuffygirl and oOkatiekinsOo- Thank you so much for all your reviews and I hope you like the story as much as I liked writing it. And so, for the last time- Hobbits away, hey!

* * *

**~ THE PROPERTIES OF CLARITY ~**

* * *

_And Over The Months After_ _**That** _

Sherlock's afraid that Molly is getting… restless.

After all, they've been living together for nearly ten months now, and five of those have been spent as a reasonably happy couple. They're "out," to all their friends, and- bar some teasing from John and Lestrade- everyone is being remarkably sensible about the news.

Even his parents are maintaining their sanity and their distance, which Sherlock knows is a wonder in and of itself.

But though he and Molly are together, and though they have proved to be surprisingly well-suited to one another, the sex thing is still, well, a  _thing_ for them. It's still an issue which hasn't been resolved.

They've gone no further than kissing and touching, actions which, nevertheless, have resulted in orgasm on several occasions. (This is why he now knows, for example, how difficult it is to get ejaculate out of a silk shirt and why woman don't like it when you tear the £80 lace teddy they wore to celebrate your birthday). But it's not the same as, as, as well,  _you know_ : Having real sex. The sex he knows Molly expects. The sex everyone else just assumes they're having. The sex where he's inside her when he comes, as opposed to lying against her back, or being suckled in her mouth, or being stroked by her hand, or stroking or suckling her in return…

And- if he's being honest- he's worried that Molly may be running out of patience with his lack of progress in this area.

He's worried that what started out as a minor inconvenience is becoming a major issue for her.

Because while he may not be the most socially aware creature in the world, Sherlock knows that sexual intercourse is considered a necessary and expected element of  _all_ romantic relationships. It is not something which one just ducks out of, no matter how one feels.  _The other person is entitled to it._ And if he doesn't provide it then maybe Molly will go to someone else in order to get it. Maybe she will leave him for someone who hasn't this odd hang-up about pleasing his girlfriend or letting her please him. Maybe she will find someone who doesn't require so much work and who doesn't need an operator's manual and who knows how to be nice and kind without having to work it out ages in advance using logarithms and diagrams and severe scoldings from his best friend and advice from that best friend's wife-

When he thinks like this, his heart twists painfully in his chest and he immediately starts trying to distract himself. To distance himself.

That's what he does when he feels things, he pushes them away.

But he can't push this away; his mind won't let him. Even though there's no answer to his quandary, at least none he wants to look at. It never occurs to him that speaking to Molly about this might be a good idea, because if he can't explain this to himself then how can he explain it to her? How could he even broach the subject? And what if she uses it as an opportunity to demand answers? What if she uses it as an opportunity to demand that he sort himself out?

 _The mere possibility in unacceptable_.

And so he muddles on regardless, utterly unsure of what to do.

* * *

"Can I ask you a question, Sherlock?"

Molly's lying on her back, his hand warm and strong against her left breast. Her jumper is discarded in a corner somewhere, and she's just taken off her bra. Her brown eyes are hazy, heavy-lidded, and she knows that she's grinning up at him as if he's the most fascinating creature in the world.

Needless to say, she thinks Sherlock likes this.

She's already divested him of most of his clothes and, needless to say, she already knows Sherlock likes  _that_.

"Of course you can, Molly," he says courteously, lowering his head to lick gently at her right nipple, suckling the small bud into tautness.  _He_ _'_ _s quite gotten the hang of that, these last few weeks._  She feels her areole crinkle against his lips as she sighs; he grins at the sound, clearly pleased with himself.

She tries to shoot him a scolding look but he nips gently at her breast and she moans instead, her eyes fluttering shut as her back arches.

 _He_ _'_ _s rather gotten the hang of that too, she has to admit._

"You were saying?" he prompts politely, laving his tongue towards the underside of her breast while his other hand continues to stroke the wetted peak of her nipple, his mouth pulling into a grin when she moans again.

Her hand slides up to stroke through his hair, tangling in it, moving his head as it pleases her. Manoeuvring him until he can suckle her just so.

Her other hand is stroking its way lazily up his thigh towards his arse and the feel of his body, taut and ready beneath her hands, is almost more than she can stand.

"You're trying to distract me on purpose," Molly murmurs though, sounding thoroughly, well, distracted.  _She knows what he_ _'_ _s playing at._ "You're trying to get me not to ask you-"

He silences her with a kiss, his other hand still at her breast. As his tongue slides inside her mouth her hand tightens on his backside, digging tautly into his flesh.

They both moan in unison and Molly giggles, pulling her head back to look at him.

"You seem rather fascinated with my arse, Molly Hooper," he says dryly.

His grin is young. Boyish, almost. But there's that now-omnipresent tension beneath it. Molly wants to lighten it, to lighten him. She wants him to relax with her.

"Of course I like your arse," she murmurs, nibbling at his lips. "It's beautifully lean; all that talking out of it keeps it in shape-"

He grins and gives her backside a playful little tap. "Behave yourself," he growls and she could almost believe that he's carefree, if it wasn't for the way she can feel him growing tense. But she knows he's trying to keep her happy; Sherlock's easy to read when it comes to their relationship, and she can practically  _see_ his mind whirring, anxious to find something he can do to keep her occupied.

He's really rather adept at getting out of "coitus," as he terms it.

But Molly- for once- is not willing to let him get out of talking to her about this.

Because she knows he's worried. And she thinks maybe she should be worried too, at this stage. Five months together and still not having full intercourse isn't… usual. In fact, she's never heard of anyone else doing that before. And she knows that she shouldn't expect anything about Sherlock to be normal; the man is extraordinary in all he does. Just as she knows that maybe, maybe he's just not ready to cross that last line with her yet. But still, she's starting to worry that there's some massive problem he doesn't know how to talk about, or maybe there's something she's doing that's putting him off or making him nervous-

"Molly," he interrupts imperiously. "Do you mind? You're thinking rather loudly."

And he goes back to sucking gently at her breasts. The feel of his mouth locked on her nipple while his hand strokes its match is exquisite.

The feel of what his other hand is now doing, stroking gently towards the apex of her thighs and then higher, higher, is rather exquisite too.

Molly has to force herself not to give in, not to just let go and allow things to take their course. If she does that, she may well end up coming tonight- and he might too- but the question of why he's avoiding things won't be settled and it won't go away.

So she tugs at his hair, hard, forcing her nipple from his mouth with an audible pop and prompting a pout from Sherlock as he sits back on his haunches.

She knows he likes having his hair pulled so this is an act.

The wariness she sees in his eyes though- That's very real.

And it's sobering enough to steel her reserve. "I said," she makes sure to annunciate clearly, "that I have to talk to you."

The wariness in Sherlock's eyes gets more noticeable. "Oh?" he says in a reasonable facsimile of a normal voice. "And what do you need to talk to me about?"

Molly opens her mouth to say the words, then closes it. How should she term this? She has the worst feeling that she's somehow going to end up insulting him.

"You remember a few months ago," she tries. "When I asked you why we never did anything other than snogging?"

The pout gets worse, his expression turning adversarial. "We do lots of other things besides snogging-"

"I know," Molly interrupts, trying to keep her voice soothing. "We do wonderful, smutty things. But we don't shag. We don't- We don't… make love. You've never tried- You've never wanted to be… inside me."

She hates being so blunt, but now is no time for euphemism.

Sherlock scowls though, looking irritated.  _Guilty_  and irritated.  _Now that_ _ **is**_ _interesting,_ Molly thinks. "I thought you like what we do-" he begins.

"And I do!"

"Then why are you-?"

"Because I really think I should." At these words his scowl gets darker; Molly's not sure whether this is genuine annoyance or obfuscation. Sherlock will often try to pick a fight rather than telling you what's really bothering him. But she also knows that this is delicate, and that she doesn't want to hurt him. His ego can be fragile and if it is that he's worried, then making him more self-conscious won't help. "But I don't want you to think- I mean, is there something I can do? Something I'm not doing?"

Sherlock blinks at her, surprised.

"Are you- I mean, is there something I could be doing to make you feel more comfortable, or more attracted to me, or, or, I don't know-"

"I  _am_  attracted to you," he says quietly. "I think- I think you're perfect."

The words are low, said in a tone of voice which brooks no argument.

Sherlock's staring at her as if he's never seen her before, completely surprised at what she's said, it seems.

Molly stares right back at him. "I'm perfect," she repeats, feeling like an idiot, but nobody's ever said that to her before. Certainly nobody who seemed to mean it. And yet…

He's peering at her as if he's trying to look right inside her brain. She's familiar with this from his detective work. It means he's encountered something he's trying to understand.

"Nobody's ever said that to me and meant it," Molly tells him, almost absent-mindedly, in answer to his unspoken question. "I'm just surprised-"

"Why?" He looks confused. "Did you really think that?" he asks. "Did you think that I don't- That I don't, you know,  _want_  you?"

Molly shrugs. She feels ridiculously vulnerable as she says all this. "I don't know," she answers honestly. "I don't… I mean, you're  _you_." At his insulted look she hastens to explain. "You're not like anyone else I've ever known," she says. "The normal maps, the normal rules, they don't apply to you. They don't apply to us."

He looks slightly disgruntled. "And you think I haven't noticed that? How, how… odd I am? How different I must be from your other-"

"Different is good," Molly says.  _This, she has never doubted._ "Different is wonderful, if different is you." At least he looks gratified at that. "But I suppose, I suppose I just want to check in. To make sure you're alright, and that I'm not making you uncomfortable or there isn't something we should talk about-"

The guilty look gets worse at her words.  _He looks awfully young, now_. "I know we should talk," he says, addressing the words to her big toe. Eye-contact seems to suddenly be an issue for him. "But I honestly don't know how to explain it. I've had sex before, I'm not a virgin. I don't know why I haven't, you know, with you."

And he sighs, rakes his hand through his hair. "I don't know what's holding me back," he says after a moment. "I know that's not helpful, but it's the truth."

Molly frowns. "So- So you've thought about it. Us. Sex."

He shoots her a small, wry smile. "Well, of course I have," he points out. "I  _am_  a Sex Jedi."

She snorts, remembering that joke from their first night together. "Help me, Obi-Wan Cumobi," she snickers. "You're my only hope."

He laughs at her words and just like that, the tension eases. With a smile he opens his arms to her and she accepts the invitation, crawling into his space and letting him tuck her body against hers. He's so much taller than her that it isn't at all difficult.

When he has her where he wants her, warm and flush against him with her head beneath his chin, then he starts to speak.

"I think about it all the time, you know," he says quietly. "I think about what it would be like to just- to just- Like we nearly did before the Moriarty hunt. Like we did when I got sunburnt and you, you-"

"Kissed it better?"

He does laugh at that. "Well, you tried, at any rate. Trying counts, doesn't it?"

His words suddenly sound unsure and she tightens her grip on him.

"Trying always counts," she says fiercely, and this seems to relax him a little bit.

"That's good to know." And he presses a tiny kiss against the crown of her head. "But every time I think about trying- you know, coitus, with you-" he continues. "Every time I consider it, I just- I just back off."

She frowns. Moves her head so that she can peer up at him. At seeing this he shrugs.

"I assure you," he says, "I didn't used to be so prudish. In fact, Mycroft says that in my university days I was quite the, well, the phrase he uses is, "Gentleman Slapper."

""Gentleman Slapper,"?" Molly inquires. She can't help her little smile at his wording.

Sherlock shrugs again. "The phrase "Bit of a Goer," has also been bandied about," he says carefully, watching her for her reaction.

He's trying awfully hard for nonchalance now.

"So you were a slut at uni?" she asks and he nods.

He looks like he's trying to not be embarrassed about it but he's not quite succeeding.

"Well, I was young. And living away from home for the first time. And, one mustn't forget that I was rather posh and apparently handsome and very stoned for most of it." Again he shrugs. "There's a certain type of young woman likes that sort of thing."

Molly cocks an eyebrow at him. "There's a certain type of young man does too, Sherlock," she points out.

He acknowledges her point with a slight dip of his head. She can see a slight… redness to his cheeks, now.

"So do you think maybe that's why you aren't as ready to… To have intercourse with me?" she asks after a moment. "Is it- Do you- Have you worn your libido out or something?"

"I don't know." Though his tone is a little sharp, she can see that he's trying to reign himself and his discomfort in.  _She loves the fact that he tries to, for her._ "I genuinely don't know," he's says again, his tone softer this time. "The fact that I apparently have a great deal of experience- whether I remember it or not, which I don't- makes my reticence less understandable, not more, I do get that.

And yet, there it is."

He presses a tiny little kiss to her shoulder.

"I wish I could give you a better answer," he says, slightly morosely.

Now it's Molly's turn to shrug. "Maybe they just weren't the right experiences," she says after a moment. "I know I have people I wish I'd never met, let alone had sex with-"

"But you will never be on that list." He speaks over her; his voice sounds very, very certain. "You understand that, don't you?" And despite herself, she nods. "So no, Molly," he says, "I don't think it's that. I don't know what it is, but I don't think it's jadedness.

After all, how could I be jaded when I'm with you?"

And he frowns, trying to find the words. She can see how hard this is for him, but she doesn't know how to make it easier.

Instead she wraps her arms around him more tightly, trying to convey welcome and acceptance without doing anything so uncouth as using the words.

* * *

He tries watching pornography.

You know, getting himself in the mood, as it were.

_Forewarned being forearmed, etc. etc. etc._

John still has rather a large stash on his laptop and an afternoon watching little baby Lizzie- as well as one of Mycroft's stolen mega-memory USB sticks- facilitates Sherlock with the perfect opportunity to do some research.

It also gives him the perfect opportunity to compare Molly's reactions to his more chaste efforts with what he assumes are the more universal reactions of other women.

His experience, however, leaves him ever so slightly horrified.

He starts with  _Lesbian Spank Inferno_ and makes it all the way through to  _The Knobbit,_ an experience which may well have ruined Tolkien for him forever. He watches unfortunate blond women and suspiciously well-endowed men shag for hours and he comes to the conclusion about twenty movies in that a) none of what he sees look terribly comfortable, b) none of what he sees looks terribly possible and c) none of what he sees looks terribly safe.

(He has recently begun researching sexual positions, hoping to move past his block through guided imagery. Instead he has discovered every conceivable reason why reverse cow-girl, normal cow-girl and sex-while she's-sitting-and-you're-standing could break his cock.

He's not impressed.

Really, really not impressed.

And though he loves a bit of research, he doesn't fancy looking any more into  _this_.)

He also doesn't like any of Molly's friends- with the exception of Mary- so he's not mad about the idea that she'd invite one of them along for the, ahem, ride. Which seems to be a genuine danger if porn is to be believed. And he's certain Molly would object to some of the things he witnesses, particularly those involving random strangers who happen to work for DHL.

(In fact, the mere thought of such a man propositioning his pathologist makes him very cranky indeed).

So, though he continues his studies when the Watsons come back from their trip to see John's grandmother and retake possession of The Sprogling (as Sherlock now calls Lizzie) nothing Sherlock sees helps him move on.

Nothing helps him with what's ailing him.

When he tells Molly she looks at him funny and then asks to borrow his laptop when he's done.

She keeps it for an awfully long time, and she won't let him in the bedroom for some reason, either.

* * *

Valentine's Day comes around and he can't find her a card which isn't saccharine or trite.

He certainly can't find one which apologises for their relationship's continued lack of consummation.

In the end he finds one of the x-rays they took of his chest after he was shot and prints it out. He cuts the photo so you can only see the organ in question, not the gunshot wound.

 _Don_ _'_ _t Make Me Say It,_ he scrawls in his familiar spider-scratch.  _Yours, SH._

He finds a fresh pig's heart in the fridge the next day, a ridiculously pink envelope sellotaped to it and covered with glitter and livid-red lipstick marks.

 _Don_ _'_ _t Make Me Say It Back,_ he reads.  _And I_ _'_ _m Yours Too, Molly_

Sherlock smiles the entire day, and not just because his expression appears to make Donovan feel nervous as Hell.

* * *

He has his moment of clarity in the middle of a jewel heist.

He's there to stop Jason "Mad Dog," McKeever, a psychotic armed robber who's trying to branch out into high end theft and who used to run with one of Moriarty's firms, back in the day. McKeever has made it very clear that he'll harm everyone Sherlock loves if the detective doesn't keep out of his business, and he's too insane for even Mycroft's warnings to have much impact-

Which makes him very, very dangerous indeed.

It also provides Sherlock with a wonderful illustration of what's been bothering him all this time.

All this occurs to Holmes in the split second between McKeever reaching for his gun and winding down his grandiloquent monologue about how he's going to find Sherlock's "little mouse," and show her what a real man looks like-

"As opposed to all the imaginary ones she knows?" Sherlock asks mildly.

A bound and gagged Lestrade shoots him a look of utter disbelief, apparently unable to believe the, well, the brass balls on the detective.

Sherlock however, couldn't give a toss.

 _He couldn_ _'_ _t._

Because he is having himself an epiphany, and when he has epiphanies everyone else can go hang.

See, he realises that he's been hearing the refrain McKeever's banging on about for years now. He's been thinking it ever since he became John Watson's friend, and ever since he allowed Molly into his life. He's been thinking it since Moriarty targeted him, and he's been having nightmares about it ever since he shot Magnusson-

He's been thinking it, and worrying about it, and having nightmares about it, and it all boils down to this:

The people he loves can be taken away. By a gunshot. By a lie or two. By his own, stupid carelessness or cowardice.

The people he loves are fragile, he can't make them less so.

And there's precious little Sherlock can do to guarantee that won't happen. What he can do he does, but he can't wrap Molly up in cotton wool and never let her out of his sight; that's no life for her. (And that's neglecting entirely the part where she'd murder him for trying it out).

No, all Sherlock can do is accept the risks and try to be as careful with people as he can.

The rest is out of his hands, control freak that he is.

He ruminates on all this as he kicks McKeever's arse, disarming him and then allowing the Met in through the security entrance once he has the scene secured. He ruminates on it as Lestrade asks him whether he has finally lost his mind and even Sally grudgingly says thank you for saving her guv'nor's life.

The Flying Squad try to bring him for a drink but he goes home to Molly instead. Slings her over his shoulder.

And when she asks what's gotten into him, he tells her he'd rather show her what's about to get into  _her_ , and off to the kitchen table they head.


	9. A Break In The Weather

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

**~ A BREAK IN THE WEATHER ~**

* * *

_About Five Minutes Later_

"Well," Molly giggles, "the Earth moved."

And she tries to sit up, only to be pulled onto her back by a wincing, grinning Sherlock Holmes.

He keeps kissing her, the clot, and not letting her move at all.

_It's almost like he has some prurient interest in keeping her on her back._

"Careful," he says, gesturing to the mess they've made of the kitchen. "Splinters. Wouldn't want you getting one of those." And he points to the remains of Baker Street's oak experimentation table, the Victorian one which Sherlock had previously sworn was unbreakable, which now lies in pieces about the room.

Apparently she and her boyfriend were a little… over-vigorous in their activities, Molly thinks.

Apparently she and her boyfriend were downright exuberant in their attempts to get it on and oh but that thought makes her smile.

And apparently, though it is rather dangerous, Sherlock has no issue trying reverse cow-girl on a piece of furniture as their first sexual position.

Molly is rather delighted with this bit of news.

But she's even more delighted when they head back to her bedroom and spend a long, rainy evening enjoying each other and the cool autumn chill.

The heat-wave of summer is long over, but she and Sherlock cling together all the same.


End file.
